


oh dear, can you see me?

by findingkairos



Series: to you I gift the end of things [6]
Category: Dream SMP - Fandom, Minecraft (Video Game)
Genre: (none of the manip/objectification/dehumanization are between Techno & Phil), Age Swap, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angel of Death Philza Minecraft (Dream SMP), Angst, Antarctic Empire, Anxiety, Blood God Technoblade (Dream SMP), Canon-Typical Violence, Caution: Oven is Hot, Child Soldiers, Conditioning, Dehumanization, Dissociation, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Emotional Manipulation, Gen, Healthy Coping Mechanisms, Healthy Relationships, Hurt/Comfort, Loyalty, Objectification, Philza Minecraft Needs a Hug (Dream SMP), Philza Minecraft-centric (Dream SMP), Platonic Relationships, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Protective Technoblade (Dream SMP), Recovery, Team as Family, Touch-Starved, Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms, Unhealthy Relationships, Video Game Mechanics, Whump, Winged Philza Minecraft (Dream SMP), Winged Technoblade (Dream SMP), aetwt
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-02-03
Updated: 2021-03-13
Packaged: 2021-03-15 02:47:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 44,754
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28681323
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/findingkairos/pseuds/findingkairos
Summary: Philza Minecraft is the youngest person ever to beat a Hardcore world and earn his wings. It makes him a target.For an enterprising faction fighting in a server-wide war, it makes him a weapon.(Age Swap!AU where Technoblade is a legendary warrior who's been having fun scaring newbies and occasionally conquering realms on behalf of Hypixel, Philza is a young player who's been guilt tripped into choosing the losing side, and things get worse before they get better.)
Relationships: Technoblade (Dream SMP) & Philza Minecraft (Dream SMP)
Series: to you I gift the end of things [6]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2104326
Comments: 492
Kudos: 1061





	1. a mountain, stuck exactly where I stand

**Author's Note:**

> ( _you are worth your weight in burning_ — what happens when we reach the sun?)
> 
> Fic & chapter titles from the song [_Freedom_ by Teddy Hyde](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=e0cBaQb5D74). 
> 
> Please mind the tags and individual chapter warnings, but as a blanket warning: this is about Phil having a Not Good Time being groomed, for roughly the first three chapters, to be a child soldier. Afterwards - well. Proceed with mindfulness and caution.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CW: solitary confinement, dissociation, (implied) emotional manipulation, (implied & self-) dehumanization

“You need to stop sparin’ them, kid.”

Phil scrambles backwards, sword up, shield up, wings flared. The stranger stays leaning against their tree, arms folded across their chest. No.

Technoblade stays leaning against the tree, arms folded and thus far away from his weapons. His eyes are unreadable behind the mask but Phil imagines them on him anyway.

“It’s bad form,” Technoblade continues, while Phil tests his footing and tries to gauge how quickly he can flee. “The server’s respawn is fully prepped and charged, man, and a quick death’s better manners than whatever nonsense you’ve been pulling.”

“If they die, they’re _gone_ ,” Phil replies automatically. Years of Hardcore have driven that into him.

As if he knows what Phil’s thinking of, Technoblade snorts. “This isn’t Hardcore, kid. You can kill ‘em and they’ll just wake up in their beds.” He moves a hand—Phil ducks, braces, gets ready to run—but he just brings it up to scratch at his ear. “But really. Maiming is just—rude, okay? Stop choppin’ off hands and fingers and start sending them off clean. I know you can do it.”

He sounds kind about it. Phil squints. It’s not like His Lordship, who wants Phil to start killing people because that’s better for morale than his incapacitation strikes. No, Technoblade sounds like the militia captains do, when they’re actually giving advice.

“I’ll keep that in mind,” Phil answers, because he has to give Technoblade at least _something_. He doesn’t rise from his ready-stance. “Now, what are you doing here?”

“What, here?” Technoblade smirks. “We’re gonna fight here later this morning, aren’t we?”

Well, that’s true, but still. Technoblade is an enemy combatant. Phil should run or try to fight him, but it’s _Technoblade_. No one walks away from a fight with the man alive. And His Lordship is already suspicious of the militia for any spies or traitors; he doesn’t want to bring that kind of ire down on himself.

“I’ll see you there, kid,” Technoblade says, and pushes himself off his tree. Phil backs up, one-two, flexes his wings and gets ready to fly. Technoblade—

Just dips his head slightly, his crown glinting in the sun. A nod. Acknowledgement?

And then there’s a quick movement in the man’s off-hand, and Phil is too busy raising his wings, mentally swearing at himself for his own naivety, but no potion splashes against his feathers, no sword flashes out to strike him down. When he lowers them, there is nothing and no one here.

* * *

It’s a pre-battle conversation that couldn’t have lasted more than a few minutes, but nevertheless it—sticks. Phil finds himself thinking about Technoblade and his words long after he’s gone and Phil has reported the sighting and endured the subsequent grilling about it.

 _This isn’t Hardcore_ , Technoblade had said. _They’ll just wake up in their beds_. And the thing is Phil knows the man is right—he _knows_ , and he shouldn’t have been told this by someone who is warmongering and power-hungry, but—

He rubs his hands over his face, sighs, pulls his wings in and wraps them around himself. It’s really not a good idea to keep them out, but His Lordship likes the look of them. He’s a soldier, and he needs to follow the chain of command.

 _Maiming people is rude_ , Technoblade had said, and Phil understands. There isn’t a way to regain lost limbs and appendages unless you die, and the respawn process is traumatic. Most people would still rather go through that than have to off themselves just to regain full finger function. This is a normal Survival world, they don’t need Phil’s weakness and personal bias to be mucking about with their own death and resurrections.

They don’t need his own hang-ups about death to force them to make that choice.

* * *

Phil changes his fighting style for the second time since he’s joined this Survival world, and reverts it back to what it had been previously. He spares completely when he can—slams the pommel of his sword into the back of someone’s head, chokes them out, drags their unconscious body someplace safe—and he gives a quick death when he can’t.

He’s already small and scrawny compared to other people here his age, but with his wings he’s one of the fastest. More often than not he ends up in a grapple and there is no good angle to ensure a knockout instead of a concussion or otherwise traumatic brain injury.

He starts carrying a smaller knife on him, one whose edge he keeps honed. It’s less unwieldy than the sword and definitely better than the axe. Most people never see it coming, or if they do, a blade through the eye is just as good as one across the throat for a nearly painless death.

He sees Technoblade in battle as the force of nature that he is, and tries to stay as far away as he can. It mostly works. Technoblade doesn’t seem to target him or give him special treatment either, not even after that short chat. He doesn’t avoid Phil, but when all who challenge Technoblade end up waking in their beds and Phil is the last one off the battlefield, ferrying people by dragging them across if he can or a blade in the throat if he can’t—

His Lordship is the one who coins Phil’s new name: Angel of Death.

Phil thinks about the blood on his hands and the number of people he’s killed today and tries to breathe.

* * *

Something—changes, with His Lordship, somewhere between battlefields.

Phil is already the youngest, the scrawniest. He’s just one of many sworn to His Lordship by oath and by contract, and he’s been content to keep his head down as best he can. But he keeps getting called to His Lordship’s study, His Lordship’s strategy meetings.

The militia leaders all know him—of course they do. No-name foreign kid from a Hardcore world with wings, they can spot him from a kilometer away. They stare at him as His Lordship gestures Phil over and makes a hand gesture.

Phil falls into parade rest, wings folded neatly, arms folded over his chest. He doesn’t know why he’s here, honestly. Does His Lordship think there’s a traitor here? Something fishy and political that he wants a show of martial prowess to intimidate? Either way, it’s not exactly Phil’s problem.

He settles in for a long night of staring into the middle distance, tunes them out.

He thinks it’ll just be a one-off event. It’s not. He’s called in again, and again, and again.

Somewhere in the fourth time he’s hovering over His Lordship’s shoulder he hears it: “What are you worried about?” A laugh. “We have the Angel of Death right here with us!”

The name still fills Phil’s mouth with bile, but there’s nothing he can do about it. It’s stuck, and besides: this is a meeting full of military superiors. Phil bites the inside of his cheek and concentrates on staring even harder at the wall.

“He is untested,” one of His Lordship’s advisors says. They sound uncertain.

“He will be trained, not to worry,” His Lordship replies, all grim cheer. “I’ll have my best warriors work with him personally. Who knows? Perhaps properly taught, he will even be able to kill that god of war.”

* * *

“You are a _soldier_ ,” his trainer says, and scowls down at him. Phil doesn’t dare to look up, just curls tighter around his ribs, tries to angle his wings so that they’re not tempting targets to step on.

It doesn’t work. The trainer places a boot on top of his left wing, lightly, almost delicately. Phil still freezes. There is threat inherent in her very posture, and it would take so little effort for her to shift her weight.

“Soldiers listen to their superior’s commands,” his trainer says, and she is right. Phil is a soldier. He is sworn and signed and bloodied and proven. He is a soldier in service of a higher cause. “The chain of command is there for a reason. Is that understood?”

“Yes, sir,” Phil wheezes out, and manages not to wrench his wing back when the trainer lifts her boot. He’s trying not to look up at her, not when it’ll be taken as insolence, as _pride_ , but he can still see her stern face.

“You might have wings, brat, but that doesn’t mean shit.” She spits and it lands squarely on Phil’s cheek but he does not move, does not breathe, does not even _twitch_. The trainer reaches down and grabs a handful of Phil’s feathers, and—

She pulls, and it _hurts_ , and Phil writhes and screeches and lunges up on instinct, and he gets a punch to the teeth for his trouble.

“What a feral kid,” he hears over his ringing ears. There’s a soft sound, like a sigh. “No worries, though. We’ll train that out of you.”

And then there’s a grip on the back of his shirt, hauling him up.

* * *

The first lesson is: he is not his own.

“You are a soldier,” his trainer repeats, harsh and uncompromising. “That means you are in service, and that your purpose is to carry out His Lordship’s will. You do not have your own. Do you understand?”

“I’m my own person,” Phil spits right back, and earns another smack to the face for his trouble.

It goes back and forth like that for a while. His trainer is a fearsome warrior, one who has managed to stall the blood god for a few minutes longer than most—almost all others in His Lordship’s service—and that gives her status over all the rest. That gives her seniority over him.

“I cannot teach you if you are _stubborn_ ,” she hisses one day, when he is splayed out in the dirt again after the second or third correction. Phil lies panting in the dirt, too tired to get up and show her that he is still willing to learn. “Gods, are you an idiot?”

And then she pauses, thinking. “Do you want to learn or not?” She actually sounds contemplative, and like she’s about to go back to His Lordship and recommend that Phil is not worthy.

He scrambles to his knees, uncaring if his wings splay in the dust and grime, because he cannot have her thinking that. He cannot have her report of his uncertainty, he cannot be an _oathbreaker_.

“I want to learn,” he manages to gasp out, and that stops his trainer in her tracks. She pauses at the edge of the field. She doesn’t turn around but that’s fine, he just needs her to stay and listen and be convinced. “I swear I want to learn. I want to be better.”

There is a long moment where she does not say anything and Phil wonders if she’s changed her mind. And then she says, voice unreadable: “You want to be better?”

“I do.”

“Then come on.”

* * *

He tries, but he’s the youngest, and he can’t quite catch up. He makes mistakes. He doesn’t learn quite as fast as his trainer wants him to.

She frowns more and more often, all awe at his wings bleached out from her. It comes to a head one windy day, when Phil lands with his axe swing first and fails to crack his target in half, too distracted by her picking at his fighting style and his combat skills and everything else about it him, apparently, that she finds wanting.

“Shut up, shut up, _shut up_ ,” he snaps, wings flared wide, axe trembling in his grip. Distantly he can see his trainer’s head jerk up, eyes widening, but he can’t find it in himself to care. “I’m doing just fine! I don’t _need_ to, to kill everybody, I can just kill the people who I can’t do anything else about and it’ll work out. You don’t get to tell me what to do.”

And then he realizes what he’s saying. He shuts his mouth, just manages to avoid biting his own tongue in his haste. He drops his gaze, looks over elsewhere, knuckles turning white on the handle of his axe.

“I do get to tell you what to do,” his trainer says. She is quiet, in a way that he has never heard her be quiet. “I am your trainer. The Captain is your commander. You are _sworn to His Lordship_ , child, and you are a _soldier_. You are not your own. I thought we had gone over this.”

“I’m oathsworn but I’m still _me_.”

It’s reflex, and it’s not at all what he’s supposed to say, and he braces himself but doesn’t manage to in time before he’s staggering, his ears are ringing, there is something warm dripping down the back of his neck.

“You are not your own.” Out of the corner of his eye, he can see that her knuckles are stained red. “But maybe you need help to make the lesson stick.”

* * *

The place where she leads him is small and dark.

“I’m not doing this because I want to,” she tells him. Her face is cast in shadow but the line of her mouth is still the same grim frown. “You’ve forced my hand. You will stay here until you learn, do you understand?”

“I understand,” he chokes out, because what else is there to say? There is nothing. He cannot say anything.

She shoves him in and close the door and then _locks him in_ , he hears it, the creaking iron and squeaking key and he’d thought she’d just leave the door closed, not lock it, not—

He feels his own voice tear out of his throat, can’t hear it, is consumed with throwing himself against the door—but it is solid oak, reinforced with iron. Heavy. Unmoving.

He throws himself against it, again and again, and only earns bruises for his trouble.

He trains before he is allowed to eat, and he hadn’t rehydrated before the punishment. His stomach cramps with hunger pangs. He finds himself gnawing at his own fingers before he realizes and stops himself.

His tongue is heavy in his mouth, dry, papery. He licks his lips and blinks his eyes and then presses the heels of his palms into them because those white bursts of false stars are better than the shadows that his mind insists are passing over the door.

There is nothing and no one outside. Just silence.

He tries to remember the way that they’d taken to this room. Had it been two right turns, or one right and one left? How many stairs? How many paces down the cold stone halls? He tries to remember. He _needs_ to remember. Otherwise he’s just left here by himself, and the dark and the cold and the—

* * *

He sleeps, and he wakes, and he sleeps, and he drifts.

It grows cold. The stone beneath him leaches the warmth from his bones, and even when he wraps his wings around himself, wills more down feathers to line them than his usual sleek falcon’s wings, it’s not enough. It’s never enough.

He loses track of time.

* * *

“Have you learned your lesson?”

He opens his eyes, and then has to raise an arm to cover them almost immediately. Even with it, the light from his trainer’s torch blinds him beneath his eyelids.

“Angel of Death,” she says, and then her clothes rustle. After hours with only himself and his hums and coughs and eventual silent breaths, it sounds loud in his ears. “Little Angel. Have you learned your lesson?”

“I have,” he says, or at least tries to. It comes out a croak and a hiss and a whisper. It’s not what she’s looking for, and he knows it, cringes, waits for the door to close and for her to leave him to his punishment again.

But that doesn’t happen. She sighs, and it’s the loud twang of a bow in his ears, but before he can flinch back she’s reaching out with her other hand and picking him up by a wing. He’s too relieved at her warmth to even care about the pulling feathers.

“A nod will do just fine,” she says, and she is kind about it. She passes a hand over his hair, smoothing it down, and the contact—after the darkness, the cold—is so good that he can’t help but lean into it. “Now. Again. Have you learned your lesson?”

He exaggerates his nod, jerks his head so quickly the world starts to spin, and just manages to not slump over as a dead weight when she hauls him over her shoulder. It presses up against the bruises he’d acquired during training, and it hurts, but he doesn’t even have the energy to hiss, just huff out pained breaths.

She must hear it, though, because she snorts. “Stop whining, brat. This won’t kill you.”

* * *

After that, she arranges for him to have his own room instead of bunking with the other militia soldiers. It’s to let him concentrate on is training, she says. He will be going in and out at odd hours, and it wouldn’t do to disturb the others. He is a soldier but he is apprenticed now, he is the Angel of Death, he is an instrumental part of the militia’s force.

He moves his meager belongings into the new room—boots, bag, a small notebook with an equally gnawed-old pen. He tucks them away in the chest at the foot of the bed. The majority of his weapons and the maintenance equipment take up the rest of the room.

He spreads his wings, and the tips of them touch the walls, and he is young but this is still small. Definitely smaller than the bunk room he’d shared with the rest of the men and women, but it’s a space all to himself.

“It took me a lot of effort to arrange this,” his trainer says, and he turns on a heel to face her and salute. She dips her chin to him but continues: “Don’t let this get to your head, Little Angel. You’re here to learn. Don’t embarrass me.”

“I won’t,” he tells her, and it’s a promise.

* * *

There is a certain amount of stubbornness required to survive Hardcore, let alone to earn wings.

He becomes well-acquainted with the small dark room over the next few weeks.

“It’s helping you,” his trainer says, whenever she locks him in the small dark room again. Every time he is allowed out the fresh air scrapes at the inside of his lungs like a knife, and every time he is locked in he feels the oppressive wet musk of bloodied stone weigh him down. And she looks so upset having to put him in there, with narrowed eyes and a pinched quality to her lips, and that hurts the worst. “Being disciplined is how you learn. I wouldn’t have to do this if you just _learned_ , Little Angel.”

And he nods to her after every time, crisply and appropriately not meeting her eyes, because she does not want a verbal acknowledgement. Just a visual one. And her word is the word of His Lordship, and he is oathsworn and His Lordship’s by contract.

It means the other soldiers start respecting him though. They nod to him as he runs his laps, whistle approvingly as he does drills with his trainer. He learns how to shut up and take the hand-to-hand spars and the way she wipes the floor with him with grace, or if not grace, then at least sullen acceptance.

The bruises turn yellow-green and are papered over with more before they’re completely healed. He presses his fingertips to them sometimes, applies pressure. There’s no broken bones nor fractures, but still. It’s proof. He’s alive, and he’s here, and he’s learning.

And then comes the day when his trainer smiles at him. They’re on a battlefield, post-fight, and there is only cleanup left to handle.

“You’ve been doing well so far, Little Angel,” she says, leaning on her planted sword in the bloodied soil. “But this is the goal.”

He looks at her. She continues to stare over the wreckage.

“To fight a god of war, you need to be a god of war.” She frowns, then, and turns to look at him. “Remember: I’m doing all of this for you.”

* * *

She is doing this for him. He is a soldier, he is sworn by oath and contract, and he has—gods. He has killed so many people.

He serves a higher purpose. There cannot be any hesitation.

* * *

Technoblade leads the enemy’s rally. In a matter of minutes, he wipes half their forces off the map and back into their beds.

After that fight, his trainer starts cranking up the severity of his training—and the punishments, when he inevitably fails. He grits his teeth and accepts them because she’s right, he needs it. He needs to be better. He needs to be _more_.

She puts binders over his wings, halfway through. “With them,” she tells him, “you’re good. And they’re great for morale. But you keep overly relying on them. You need to learn how to fight without them.”

And she’s right about that, too. It still doesn’t stop him from flexing his wings against the binders, muscles straining, instinctively moving them to shield-flutter-fly and feeling a tightness in his chest when he can’t.

It doesn’t stop him from stumbling over his feet. His balance is off, his reactions are _shot_ , and the number of bruises multiply. His trainer does the only thing she can, and helps motivate him with reduced food and sleep rations.

“I’m not doing this because I want to,” she tells him, and he believes her. She is his trainer. She is here to make him better, and he’s just slow and weak and young and dumb. The others under her tutelage have picked up the sword form she is teaching him weeks ago and long since moved onto other drills. He is still struggling with the most basic of tasks.

“It’s not your fault you need help remembering things,” she tells him, and he dips his head and straightens his spine and shows her his thankfulness the only way he is allowed how. She smiles, then—the faintest traces of it pass over her face—and suddenly, knee-tremblingly, he is glad.

She is his trainer. She is here to teach him. She is only doing what is the best for him, and His Lordship, and the country that rests on their shoulders.

“Little Angel,” she calls, and he follows.

* * *

It’s been weeks, and the war doesn’t seem to have an end.

“It’s because they won’t lie down and die,” his trainer hisses, but that’s only half the problem. He knows: he’s allowed back in the strategy meetings after he learns to fight without his wings. Sometimes he’s asked to make a report, always he’s expected to stay in parade rest behind his trainer’s shoulder as she paces the floor. She is smart, cleverer than the rest, and yet they’re still being outplayed.

They are still being run around in circles by the blood god, the one that the masses chant for, and he hates the god so much that it hurts. Technoblade had told him to give people clean deaths, and yet here he is, being a hypocrite. He’s just playing with his food.

“He’s dragging this out,” he says, when his trainer jerks her head at him. He flicks his attention over the markers on the map, refuses to flinch when he needs to crane his neck and it pulls at the bruises along his spine. “He’s intentionally taking the slow way, turned this into a war of attrition rather than a decisive end. But why?”

“Because he is a god of war,” someone snarls. “He’s the blood god, of course he wants blood. But fuckin’ hell, we’re gonna show that fucker.”

“We have the Angel of Death,” his trainer snorts, and grins with teeth. “We have me. What’s the status on the TNT?”

* * *

The TNT doesn’t work, because in their very next battle—one where he is finally, _finally_ allowed in again, doing real, actual work instead of dogging his trainer’s heels and playing merciful cleanup—Technoblade introduces potion warfare. More specifically, he has his forces rain down harming and slowness and weakness potions, and it causes devastation among their ranks.

“I’m a bloody fool,” his trainer hisses. She’s dragging him along by the wrist, and he follows as best he can. The battle had taken a lot out of him but that’s no excuse, his trainer is still sooty and bleeding and leaving trails of ash in their wake but look at her, she’s not slowing down. He shouldn’t either.

“I should have _expected this_.” They reach the training room, and the door bangs open on the other side in her haste. She drops his wrist and makes a beeline for the chest full of potions, the ones that he helps brew but isn’t allowed to touch. “But this is fine, this is fine. I still have time. I can still teach you this.”

She turns around, bottles of potion in hand, and she makes a come-here gesture. “You can build up a tolerance to these, did you know that, Little Angel? And we’re going to make sure that the next time that bloody god tries something like this again, you can fake him out and _kill him_.”

* * *

He drinks the potions, has them splashed on him, curls up over his stinging ribs because his bruises and cuts are flaring up with unexpected pain and he can deal with the regular amount but not with _this_ —

But his trainer is saying, “It’s just a little pain,” and she is running her fingers through his feathers, readjusting the binders on his wings so that they lie flatter. She is preening, even though she doesn’t know that’s what she’s doing, and it feels so good that he keens.

Thankfully she takes it as a sign that he’s in pain, which at least is true. “It’s just a little pain,” she repeats again, and at least she sounds tired, not angry or disappointed. That’s the best-case scenario. “This is nothing. Better than dying, Little Angel, especially since you’re the Angel of Death.”

Better pain than dying, he repeats to himself. Better this than waking up gasping in his bed, the morale of the army plummeting, his trainer’s disappointed face. Anything but that.

His trainer starts quizzing him on what potion is which by their effects on him alone. And like the slow and weak and young and dumb brat that he is, he learns slowly.

But eventually he learns how to tell the potions apart by what kind of pain they leave behind. Harming feels like a fire held too closely to his skin, until it starts to burn; slowness feels like a chill that sinks straight into his bones, makes him sluggish. Weakness leaches the strength from his limbs, makes him dizzy, makes it hard to see.

“Good,” his trainer says, and there is warmth in her voice. He wants to curl up, close his eyes, listen to that pleased tone until everything stops hurting—but there is no rest for soldiers. “Now, again. What is this one?”

She uncorks a potion and pours it over his outstretched wing. It feels different there; some potions sluice straight off, others sink in as if they aren’t feathered. This one does the latter. He shivers, stifling the flinch instinct, concentrates on the feeling of the crawling pain.

“Harming,” he says, when he thinks he’s got it right. He can still hold up the wing, so it’s not weakness; he can still flex it, just a little, and it feels like it moves as it should.

“Correct.” She corks and puts away the potion and he tracks where she is in the room by sound alone, but she doesn’t reach for another one. Just stays there, still, silent.

He doesn’t retract his wings, doesn’t reach for a healing potion to mend the hurt, doesn’t move. After a little while his wings start to tremble—involuntary, can’t help it, the muscles there are strong by necessity but it has been a long day—week—month—

“I don’t have a lot left to teach you,” she says, and she sounds thoughtful. “You were already skilled when you joined us, and you’ve improved ever since. And we need you out there rather than stuck learning with me. I know you see it, Little Angel. The end of the war.”

He holds still, doesn’t dare breathe too loudly, but she is right. He’s noticed. They are running out of time. The war will end soon, one way or another.

And then she adds, “I think you might be ready.”

* * *

“He’s turned out well,” His Lordship says.

He keeps his gaze centered and distant, his feet flat on the floor, his wings still. Perfect form, perfect grace.

His Lordship circles around, runs fingers through his feathers. He doesn’t flinch. He _cannot_ flinch.

“He was a joy to teach,” his trainer says, and the praise—rare, but this time fairly won—makes a bit of warmth bloom in his chest. He can hear the smile in her voice, as small and as faint as it is. “Lean, mean, a killing machine—just what we need, Sire.”

“Just what I need.” His Lordship digs his fingers into his wings, into the muscle, and he breathes in slowly through his nose. It doesn’t hurt, just feels wrong, but the sensation feels so very far away. The hand moves down to his lower back, then back up, to the feathers between his shoulders. “Oh, Angel of Death. You come in our hour of greatest need.”

His Lordship runs his fingers through the feathers one last time before he withdraws his hand. “Now, come. Let me show you what we’re looking at.”

* * *

He returns to the battlefield proper that week. No longer dogging his trainer’s heels, no longer playing Angel for the ones who need mercy kills to wake safe and whole in their beds—no.

 _Angel of Death_ , His Lordship calls him, and he lives up to his name.

He loses track of the number of people that he kills.

He sees the blood god on the battlefield, once or twice. He is still a force of nature. All who cross his path flee or die.

But all who cross _his_ path do the same, now, and before long there are whispers that there are two gods descended upon the war to fight. He is one of them.

“Hey, kid,” the blood god says, and he flies away before the blood god can continue.

* * *

“We have the Angel of Death,” one man says, and then his Captain adds, “Even their most fearsome warriors flee in front of it,” and a simpering courtier asks His Lordship, “Aren’t its wings simply the most beautiful you’ve ever seen?”

“Yes,” His Lordship says, and then beckons him closer. He goes. He stays still as a proper soldier should when His Lordship brushes the backs of his fingers over his feathers. “Soft to the touch, and yet wielded with such lethal grace. Truly, it is the jewel of our military arm.”

The meeting drags on. His Lordship does not remove his hand from his wings, his feathers. Every once in a while he will stroke them in a bastardized preening motion, and he has to strangle the keening in his throat before he embarrasses himself.

But he doesn’t move, and he doesn’t flinch—he stays stock still as a proper soldier should.

“My Angel of Death,” His Lordship says fondly. “Go bring me some heads, will you?”

* * *

He brings His Lordship his requested heads. His Lordship smiles, and runs a hand through his hair, rests it on his back between his wings.

“Very good,” His Lordship praises. His thumb is rubbing circles into the angel’s back, slow and steady. “You didn’t play with your food, did you, now?”

“No, sir.” They had been quick deaths, all of them, and the heads had been neatly packaged and prepared for transport. He knows how to follow orders, and he resents His Lordship, just a little, for implying that he doesn’t.

“So this is your newest warrior?” His Lordship’s guest peers up at him, eyes sharp. They look between him, then down at the paper in their hands, then back up again. “No, pardon me. Your newest weapon. Wherever did you find him?”

“It,” His Lordship enunciates, and the angel stiffens. His Lordship is merciful, though, and doesn’t draw attention to his—its—failure. “And it came to us in a stroke of luck. The winged angel fell from heaven, you see, and blessed us with its presence.”

“I see.” His Lordship’s guest shakes their head, passes their hand over their paper to straighten it. “Whatever it takes to win a war, I suppose. Now come on, what was it you were promising me when you won in return for my help?”

His Lordship buries his fingers in the angel’s wings one last time, before he withdraws his hand and steps back to the negotiation table. The angel takes the hint. It falls back into parade rest, spots a point in the middle distance, fixes its eyes upon it. This, too, is familiar at least—being shown off, winning political influence for His Lordship. Part and parcel and this is how you win a bloodless war.

It folds its hands behind its back and tries to subtly, discreetly flake the dried blood off its hands while His Lordship is distracted.


	2. snow collecting on my head

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CW: dehumanization, medical mutilation (of the wing variety), objectification, (referenced) strategic suicide (due to video game mechanics), (implied & referenced) torture(-ing), (referenced) kidnapping

Its days settle into a new normal.

His Lordship makes requests of it, and they are special missions; they cannot be given to the army nor the militia. They do not have the skill, or they are not discreet enough, or they are simply not as loyal to the cause.

It is loyal. It is bloodied and oathsworn and proven.

“Bring me his heart,” His Lordship says, and it dips its head and sweeps out of the room.

Flying is not allowed within the castle, but as soon as it passes the walls it extends its wings. They are gleaming, newly cleaned, but that is fine; today is not a stealth mission.

Today will depend on its speed, and of that it has plenty.

Its target, the briefing had gone, likes to make solo trips into the woods. He does not bring any guards, because he does not expect to find any trouble.

“He,” His Lordship’s advisors had said, “is the lynchpin of this plan,” and it is a soldier, a tool to be wielded in the grasps of its superiors.

The intelligence proves good. Its target is sitting in a small forested clearing, hands beneath his head, a single sword by his side. There is a horse, but it is tied to a tree a few paces away, peacefully grazing.

It will need to be especially quiet in order to avoid spooking the horse, but that’s fine. Silence and surprise is best for this anyway.

It hovers—circles—enjoys the wind beneath its wings. It’s a rare day when there is time enough to slow down, but too much dallying means it is being idle, and being _idle_ is—

Is—

Enough stalling. It beats its wings once, twice, then folds them in for a dive, knife first.

* * *

“Oh, Angel,” His Lordship says, and his voice is full of pride. “Another successful hunt, was it?”

The tone of voice—the absolute certainty of its success—makes something warm in the vicinity of its ribs. It sets the feeling aside to bow, presenting the leather bag with both hands.

“Beautiful.” His Lordship waves a hand, and a servant steps forward to take it from it. The angel keeps its head down, watches the servant out of the corner of its eye. She looks—pale, lips pinched, but determined. All the people of this castle are so determined.

They are the people it bloodies its hands for. Them, and the lord, and no matter how many times it must scrub its hands, it's a worthy trade.

When she has taken its burden away, it lowers its hands, folds them across its back.

“Come here,” His Lordship says, watching the leather bag with a still-warm heart be whisked away to—whoever it goes to. It is not the angel’s place to know.

And the lord has said _Come here_. It goes.

His Lordship waves it down. It is confused, until the lord helps it out by putting a hand on its shoulder and pressing.

Oh. It kneels, His Lordship’s hand following it down, and he rewards it by threading his fingers through its feathers.

It swallows the keen with long-practiced ease. The warmth from the hand is fire on its skin, and it rolls its head on its neck, goes as far as to be daring enough to look at His Lordship’s chin.

And oh, he is smiling.

“The hope of our army rests on your shoulders,” His Lordship murmurs, and rubs circles into its feathers. “On your wings.”

“They’re beautiful,” His Lordship’s guest—now ally—says, and they sound thoughtful. “’tis a pity there’s only one of it, is it not?”

Are they—

“Truly, a pity,” His Lordship says, and the angel deliberately slows its breath. It has not been idle. It has been _loyal_. There is no reason to suspect that they are trying to replace it, make it redundant, make it _obsolete_.

It is oathsworn. There is nowhere else to go, if not here.

“Imagine if we had four more like it—why, we would win this war within the week!” His Lordship’s fingers tighten in its wings. It concentrates on the cold stone beneath, the harsh and unrelenting way it digs into its kneecaps. “Alas. We do what we can with what we have.”

“I’m surprised.” In its peripheral, it can see the ally tilt their head. “Why not look into getting more?”

“Pardon?”

“More pairs of wings,” they clarify, and it has to listen, it has to pay attention, it might be given the favor of being under His Lordship’s hand while he strokes its feathers in thought, but its place is now—precarious. It has to be the best. It has to be perfect.

“What do you mean?”

“The End is cut off from us, but you have a universe-blessed pair right here.” The ally gestures, reaches out—but His Lordship makes a noise in the back of his throat, and they stay their hand before the angel would be forced to take it off for daring to touch what is the lord’s.

They continue, tone unchanged: “There is a distinct possibility, you know, that if your little angel ever lost its wings, the universe would fix it by giving it another pair.”

His Lordship’s hand stills. It swallows the hitch in its breath, heaves its thoughts away from the hopes that he will continue the petting.

“But what if it doesn’t?”

“Silk Touch would have them come off cleanly. They can always be reattached. And if the initial attempt fails—” They shrug. “Its bedspawn is set within the castle, isn’t it?”

Silence. It counts its breaths, checks the security of the room without moving its head.

Eventually the lord says, “It is.” He starts running his fingers through its wings again, this time slower, more deliberately. It’s almost a preen, except he is messing up as many vanes as he is neatening, but it feels _so good_ it can’t complain.

“It might work,” His Lordship says, and then takes away his hand.

It swallows down the whine, but doesn’t get to do more than that before His Lordship is cupping its face, and oh, he’s warm.

“Little Angel,” he says, and brushes his thumb over its cheek. It can’t help itself—its eyes flutter closed. His Lordship chuckles, low and soft, before he says again—“Little Angel.”

Reluctantly, it opens its eyes.

“You are loyal to me, are you not?”

And despite itself, it rises on its knees in sudden offense, wings flaring just a little. Not enough to break form or break out from beneath the lord’s hand, it’s better than _that_ , but the surprise is real. “Of course, milord.”

“Good.” His Lordship sweeps his thumb one more time, curls his fingers beneath its jaw, and then he smiles. “Then you won’t mind if we perform a small test, do you?”

“No,” it replies, and swallows down the fear. It is His Lordship asking. It is oathsworn. It is a soldier, it knows how to follow orders.

“Lovely,” the lord whispers, and the praise sends a jolt straight down its spine.

* * *

They reassure him that the enchantments include Silk Touch. It is the surgeon who will be wielding the axe—not a sword, he explains, because the magic doesn’t take to knives but a sword is a little too unwieldy. An axe will let it come off cleanly. Sharpness will ensure its speed.

The angel turns the axe over in its hands. The surgeon is correct. There is Silk Touch, and Sharpness, and Sweeping Edge. The last, it points out with a finger on the engraving.

“Just in case,” the surgeon says. There is a faint smile on his face. Professional curiosity, he’d said earlier, and the angel understands. It really does.

It hands the axe back to the surgeon hilt-first, and turns around to shed its shirt.

“Do you want any painkiller for this?”

“Can you spare any?” the angel returns, and its voice is rasping in the quiet.

The surgeon pauses. It smiles, wryly, and shakes its head. “Then don’t bother. Save it for the troops.”

“Are you sure?” the surgeon asks. He is curious, now, truly curious. “I’ve heard the rumors, Sir Angel of Death, but to be undergoing this procedure without anesthesia—”

“I’m no ‘Sir.’” It is an unearned title, and the wrongness prickles its skin. It shakes its head. “And I’ve built up a tolerance to most potions. You’d need a truly great amount to keep me down. Save it.”

It spreads its wings, gives the surgeon access to the joint where wing meets back. “Do you have enough space?”

“Yes,” the surgeon says after a moment, and then clears his throat. “Alright, then. Here. For you to bite down on.”

The angel takes the offered gag, turns it over in its hands as well. It’s cotton layers on a wooden block. “To avoid a bitten tongue.”

“Among other things, yes.”

The gag slots neatly behind its teeth. It inhales, and it’s slightly less than a full lungful, but that’s fine. Just needs to be enough for this.

“Please stay as still as possible.”

It breathes in, slow and steady, and then almost chokes on its own spit.

It hurts. It _hurts_ , and it is fire and pain crawling up its back, a searing that spreads from shoulder blade to shoulder to arm to hand, but—

But—

“It’s over now,” the surgeon says. Its back is lighter, much lighter, as light as it had been before it had earned its wings. The surgeon sounds so very far away, like there is cotton muffling its ears. “It’s over now. Breathe, okay? Deep breaths.”

It sucks in a breath. Then another. Then another, until the world sharpens at the edges again.

“You’re bleeding more than I thought you’d be.” The surgeon is hovering behind its back, dabbing with something rough. Linen or cotton, maybe. It sends sparks of pain down its back, new and immediately blending in with the line of fire that’s already there. “But that’s fine, I suppose—that’s what the bedspawn is for.”

The axe itself, the angel thinks, trying to get its thoughts back in order again, had been bad enough. A fire-hot axe might have—been just a little too much. Have sent it over the edge.

“The procedure worked beautifully, though.” Someone is rustling in the back—no, that’s its wings.

The wings.

The wings are rustling in the back, and its back is light—weightless—open and vulnerable—but the wings are fine. The feathers are fine.

“His Lordship will be pleased,” the surgeon says, and that is all it has ever wanted. That is all it has ever needed.

* * *

“Beautiful,” His Lordship calls it, when it wakes up in its bed.

“It died in the process, though,” the ally says, thoughtful.

The angel flutters its wings—it tries to flutter its wings. It fails.

“And there is only one pair.” His Lordship sounds disappointed. The angel levers itself out of bed to kneel on the straw mattress. Its back is sore and unnaturally light. It folds its hands on its lap and tries to breathe.

“Better to return them then, hm?”

“Perhaps.” His Lordship hums, thoughtful. “Perhaps not.”

There is blood rushing in its ears. Over them it hears the lord of their allies: “Perhaps not?”

“They _are_ beautiful.” There are—

Its breath hitches. There are fingers stroking through its feathers. But the wings are not on its back. They are elsewhere, and—it tries to reach them—they are—

Cold. Somewhere cold.

“You want to leave them hanging on your wall?” The tone of voice is as flat as a blade.

“For now.” The fingers leave its feathers. It hitches in a breath. And then the lord’s hand descends, strokes its hair, cups the back of its head, and it’s a distraction from the burning emptiness, it’s soothing, it feels so good—

“Ah, I see.” Shuffling clothing. “So that’s how you keep it in line.”

“An angel should not be without its wings,” His Lordship murmurs, “but just for a little while—I’d like to keep this one within my reach. Just for now.”

“As long as you remember what its purpose is.”

“Of course.” The fingers thread through its hair, then pull, just a little. It whines in the back of its throat—can’t help it—but there is a guest here, an ally, but allies are easily lost and won and impressed.

It stays still instead of squirming away, and the lord rewards it by loosening his grip and petting its hair again.

“I will return them in due time. What do you think? One of the longer feathers for a quill?”

* * *

While it is—grounded—

While it is confined to the castle walls, His Lordship’s military advisor finds work for it to do. It is glad. Idle hands make for idle soldiers, and it cannot afford to be one right now. Not as the angel of death that His Lordship needs, and not as the angel it needs to be if it wants to—

It wrenches its thoughts back to the debriefing.

“Do you understand?” the Captain says. Her eyes are hard. She reminds it of its trainer, if with paler hair and a lazy eye.

But she’s asked a question, and she has the same demanding expression as the trainer. It nods.

The tension doesn’t leave the furrow between her eyes. “I’m serious about this. You might be called the angel of death, but it’s one thing to be a warrior on the battlefield and another to be doing the work we do.”

It nods again. Says, voice quiet: “I understand the need. I’m under your command, Captain.”

She grunts, then turns on her heel. “Come on, then.”

They pass by the lower-priority prisoners. Cells, filled one to each, secured and complete with beds. “Sometimes it works,” the Captain says, voice grim. “The stupider ones will set their spawnpoints here, and that lets us engage in—more aggressive tactics. But the smarter ones will avoid it, and then we have to get creative.”

Bedspawning and bedtrapping. It can still hear the advice, even though it feels like it had been so long ago: _You can kill them and they’ll just wake up in their beds_. The lower-priority cells are almost full; the higher-priority ones are almost empty.

No wonder they are on the losing side of the war, if the enemy has been advised and commanded by a god who sees nothing wrong with ordering his soldiers to commit suicide in order to retrieve them.

“Ah, now here we go.”

The Captain of the Intelligence Division stops outside a cell that looks like all the others. She opens it with a key from the ring on her hip, heaves the door open with her shoulder.

The person in the chair, hands tied behind their back, head hung low—the glare they give the Captain, and then the angel, is bloody and baleful. They haven’t given up at all.

“Today I brought a friend,” the Captain—the torturer—says. She spreads her hands, points at the angel. “You recognize ‘em?”

The prisoner swings their head around. Their eyes widen, then narrow; and then they snort, loud and ugly. “Your so-called angel?”

“It can either be your angel of mercy,” its superior says, “or it can be your angel of pain.”

“Where are its wings, then?” The prisoner lifts their head, rolls it on their neck, eyes it up and down. It remains in parade rest, gaze held steady, shoulders forward, predatory.

It doesn’t make a difference. The prisoner still sneers, and spits at the floor. It’s bloody. “Could be just some kid. He don’t scare me.”

“It’s the real deal,” the Captain says, and even from here it can hear the smile in her voice. “Perhaps you need a demonstration. Little Angel?”

It hasn’t been called that in—

“You know what we do here, don’t you?” She turns around, and there is ice in her eye. “We will do everything up to but not including death. Don’t worry about going overboard; I have instant healing potions on hand. So.”

She strides over to a side table and picks something up, turns to hand it over. It takes it with steady hands.

“Did you hear?” the Captain smiles, and folds her hands behind her back. “Our angel likes using a knife on the field, and it’s quite good at it.”

It presses a thumb to the edge of the blade; the skin parts easily. Sharp enough, then. It won’t cause any unnecessary pain or trauma.

“You’re fucked,” the prisoner hisses. They’re not looking at it anymore, they’re staring at the Captain, narrow-eyed. There is too much emotion in their face. How did they ever survive until now? “You’re using a kid to torture people? Getting him to do your dirty work?”

“Unlike you, we do what’s necessary.” The Captain clicks her tongue. The angel straightens, falls back into parade rest, knife held carefully in one hand. “Go ahead and start, little angel, and go until I tell you to stop.”

It has a duty. It has a job. This is a superior, and she is commanded by His Lordship, and the lord is the owner of its contract.

It steps forward, knife at the ready.

* * *

When the Captain is not looking, it does the only thing it can: leave a deep wound in the prisoner for a slow death. Hopefully, no one will notice and heal it until it’s too late.

The prisoner glances down at where the knife is buried in their thigh, then looks up. There’s something in their eye that the angel doesn’t know how to read.

“What’re you doing, kid?” they ask, and then, to cover: “Why are you working with them?”

“It’s no use,” the Captain says from the corner, where she is taking notes in her book. She doesn’t look up. “It’s well-trained. Won’t answer you without explicit permission from its master.”

“And _that_ again! You’re calling a kid an ‘it’!” They glance from it to the Captain, then back again. “C’mon, kid, talk to me. Why’re you here? Are they hurting you?”

It presses its lips together. Keeps its eyes down. Doesn’t answer.

Their voice lowers into a whisper: “You don’t have to stay with them. You can come to us—”

“It can’t,” the Captain snorts. “And stop talking to it. Gods, are you an idiot or what?”

“—you don’t have to stay here, we can help—”

“It’s oathsworn.”

That shuts up the prisoner. Literally; they snap their mouth shut with a clack of teeth. They stare at it, eyes wide, and from this close it can see the color of their eyes in its peripheral vision.

It carefully looks away. If it doesn’t pay attention, then it won’t remember later.

“ _Oathsworn?_ ” Their voice rises, indignant—no, _angry_. “You got a kid to _swear a binding oath_?”

“From what I heard, it volunteered.” The Captain shakes her head. “That’s His Lordship for you. Certainly more charismatic, a strong leader who does what needs to be done, unlike your softy who needs to outsource her leadership.”

“You’re a monster,” the prisoner says—and then they grin. “Oh, I can’t wait until Technoblade gets his hands on you.”

The scratching stops. The Captain raises her head from her parchment and quill. “What?”

The prisoner rolls their head on their neck. Their pupils are dilated, their movement slow and sluggish. It’s been five, maybe ten minutes. Not too long now. “You know, Technoblade? Although,” and they chuckle, “you’d know him as the demon. The blood god.”

“He’s still killable,” the Captain points out. Her voice has gone cold. The angel flinches back from it, hides the movement by shuffling back towards the wall. The absence of its wings is—is—

That’s what the wall is for. It takes up a post in the corner, able to see the rest of the room, the prisoner, the Captain, the singular door; all of it.

The prisoner is pale. Only a little longer, now. It clutches the knife in its hand and tries to breathe.

“Technoblade never dies,” the person in the chair wheezes, and it’s triumphant. “You’ll see. And when it happens—well. Sucks to know that the little winged demon is oathsworn, but that doesn’t mean we can go any easier on you, kid.”

They turn to look at it. It startles. There is something burning in those eyes, as refusing to focus as they are.

“We’ll make it quick,” they tell it, more genuine than they should be with a weapon—and then they’re gone.

They slump over. The Captain surges out of her seat, eyes wide, a snarl on her face, but the respawn magic is already taking effect. The body shimmers, then starts dissolving.

The Captain’s fingers close over air. She makes a noise in the back of her throat, something guttural, filled with rage. Then she whirls around to turn that icy glare to—it.

“What the hell was that,” she snaps. “He was stable. I poured two potions of healing on him. What happened?”

A mercy kill. A small rebellion. The most that it can do, under the yoke of the chain of command.

“I don’t know,” the angel says, and angles itself to—yes.

It rocks with the punch, and that’ll hurt, but not as much as it could have, this is fine, it can handle this. It knows how to handle this.

“He was our best lead,” the Captain hisses. She shouts something wordless, sharp and short, and the angel resolutely does not flinch. No reaction, nothing to catch her attention. “He was one of their _Lieutenants_ , gods damn it. At the very least we could have asked—”

She starts pacing, muttering under her breath. It goes ignored. It stays silent, breathes quietly, keeps the wall to its back and sinks into that quiet place in its head where everything goes—still.

* * *

“Are you sure it’s not defective?”

“It is not your place,” His Lordship says, fingers tangled in its hair, “to question it.”

The Captain grunts. “It could’ve fooled me, Sire. That man was nowhere near death—we swapped to the waterboarding just for him. And when I tell it to clean up for me—the moment I turn my back, let it do what it wants with its little knife—the fucker dies.”

“I’m sure it was an accident. Wasn’t it, little angel?”

It is a good soldier. It follows orders. The momentary instinct to—help— _Maiming is rude. Stop being rude._ —had overtaken it, but not again. Not in the face of this disappointment.

It nods beneath the lord’s hand, eyes closed. If it doesn’t look, it can’t tense up in anticipation. It can’t see the feather quill on the desk, the wings displayed proudly in the room.

“See?” His Lordship runs his fingers through its hair again, and it leans into the motion, silently hoping—yes. He continues the petting, and it grasps at the distraction with both hands. “Just a little accident. It was being bloodthirsty, I suppose—we haven’t let it free in a while.”

“That makes sense.” The Captain snorts, harsh and derisive. “She wasn’t kidding, that it’s a feral little thing.”

“Beautifully lethal, yes. And yet—all that grace and power, working for our cause.” The lord’s voice turns hard. His hand pauses, fingers cradling the back of its skull where it kneels on the floor beside him. “Our little angel’s working as hard as it can. You must do the same. Can’t let it do _all_ the work, you know.”

“Yes, milord.” A quiet chink of metal on metal, as the Captain shifts in her armor.

“You have something on your mind. What is it?”

There’s a moment of silence, before the Captain sighs. “That Lieutenant knew of Technoblade.”

His Lordship scoffs, but his fingers tighten on the angel’s skull. It breathes in slowly, steadily. “ _Everyone_ knows of Technoblade. He’s winning them the war.”

“No, I mean—he spoke like he knew the man personally.”

“Beyond as just his general?”

“If not, then he was convinced he knew how that bloody god would react.”

“Well.” His Lordship’s fingers spasm—the angel sucks on its teeth to keep itself silent—before he lets go. “ _Well_. A pity that he slipped through our grasp, then. A pity indeed.”

There’s an edge to His Lordship’s words. It can handle pain, discomfort, the sight of a man being tortured, but the disappointment of the lord hurts like nothing else.

“I’m sure it was an accident, my angel,” he says. “But even then, I’m afraid that with the consequences being so dire—you must fix the mess you’ve created yourself. Do you understand?”

He’s speaking as a lord to a vassal; oathbearer to oathsworn. It doesn’t understand, but that is not the point. It knows the chain of command, its duties, its oaths. It will obey.

“You want it to go and—”

“ _Handle_ it, yes. It lost us a valuable source of information, so it’s only fair that it brings us a new one, is it not?”

It is only fair. It is only _right_.

* * *

Kidnapping someone is different from just snapping their necks or slicing their throats. It comes to know this intimately over the next few days.

It has experience with using its knife or its speed or its physical appearance as a young child in order to win a fight. But those are quick, neat, precise; there’s not enough time for someone to fight back. There _cannot_ be enough time, because the angel is light on its wings and its bones are hollow. A single bad blow could spell disaster for His Lordship’s side.

But for this, it learns to use more tools. Chloroform. A sack. Potions to gild the edge of its blade, and a squad of soldiers—"just in case,” His Lordship says with a smile, “things go wrong.”

It uses all but the last. It is capable, it does not need _help_. Chloroform and cloths and the quickness bent to new purposes is enough to knock out the outbound scout, and it drags the unfortunate soldier by the back of their shirt until it reaches the transport.

“Good,” the Captain says, but her eyes are cold. “Now, again.”

It goes out again.

“Still not highly ranked enough. Find us a corporal, little angel.”

It goes out again.

“Good. Another one. The last didn’t know anything, but she gave up intel of who you should target next.”

It goes out again, and again, and sometimes it fails; most of the time it succeeds. It drags back men and women and children for His Lordship’s people, for His Lordship’s cause, for His Lordship’s victory, and swallows down its hesitation.

This is how you win a bloodless war. With enough information, they can blackmail, sway, convince, or threaten the other side and their allies into backing down. There will be no more need for death.

And if it finds ways to slip mortal wounds on what prisoners it has access to, officially or unofficially, because _Maiming is rude_ and this war might drag on but the last thing it will be is _rude_ —well. Only the stars need to know.

* * *

“Are you going to give it back its wings?”

It is kneeling by the lord again. It is not the center of conversation, people are talking above its head, but it stills.

“I rather like the castle as it is now—they’re so dusty, would you believe it? All that powder down and loose molting feathers. At least here on my wall, the mess is contained.”

It inhales, slowly and steadily. Its back is aching less now, phantom pains and phantom sensations from the wings—elsewhere—becoming more manageable the longer it goes without them. It is like training. It can handle this.

It must be able to handle this.

“Oh?” A considering sound. “I rather thought it looked fetching with the wings. They were practically its height and a half, and now it looks a lot less—impressive, shall we say, without them.”

“Less impressive, perhaps, but no less deadly.” His Lordship reaches out his hand. It stays motionless, and the lord rewards it with a pat on the head. It’s a little rough, but he isn’t looking in its direction, it’s only to be expected. “Being grounded a little while longer won’t kill it.”

“It might kill _us_ ,” a daring soldier says, and belatedly the angel realizes: it’s the trainer. Stars, it has been—days, weeks, perhaps months—some undetermined amount of time since it had heard her last. “I’ve told you, milord: it is well trained, but it is still the angel of death. Grounding it will make it antsy.”

“A caged bird still sings, does it not?”

“And a cornered rat will still bite. Milord.”

That, there, is defensiveness and pointedness and _challenge_ in the trainer’s voice. It tenses. The woman is—had been—its trainer, but this is His Lordship, and he deserves respect.

His voice is scrupulously even when he says, “You’re skirting a dangerous line there, my friend.”

“Milord. You know I do this for your own benefit.”

There is silence. The angel flexes its toes in its shoes, calculates how fast it can lunge up, at what angle it will need to do so in order to sweep the woman off her feet and into a restraining hold—

And then His Lordship laughs, and he’s petting at its hair again, thumb sweeping across its skull. “True, true,” he chuckles, and sighs. “Perhaps you have a point. An angel needs its wings, after all.”

The hand in its hair uncurls, grasps at the back of its head, tugs it upwards on its knees. “Will you fight for us, my angel?” he asks.

And what else is there to say but yes?


	3. my feet buried in the sand

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CW: dehumanization, objectification, (implied) strategic suicide (due to video game mechanics), weaponization, y'know the drill.

They are losing the war.

It is going unsaid, but it’s apparent in the way that the higher ranking officers move and talk, the desperation behind their eyes, the curtness to their words. His Lordship’s advisors are moving away their tactics from winning to stalemating to stalling. His Lordship’s allies are no longer investing as much resources as they had been before.

It flutters its wings. They are sore, and they still hurt, but it isn’t allowed to fly anywhere, anyway. It is to stay close by and wait.

The waiting stretches on, and on, and on. His Lordship takes to running his fingers through its feathers again. His hand is firm and he tugs on its feathers in thought and it’s fine, everything is fine.

* * *

“Surrender or die,” the blood god says, and his voice rings from where he stands outside the castle walls. He does not shout. He does not have to. The air is dead still, and the people within the castle are frozen.

“I want white flags, three days from now by dawn.”

“Or what?” one brave soldier on the ramparts asks. Her voice is shaky. She asks anyway.

The angel breathes in slowly. In front of it, His Lordship is clenching his hands into fists, hard enough to bleed.

“Or else,” Technoblade says, and his toothy smile is audible in his voice. “We pay you all a _visit_.”

* * *

“It doesn’t matter if he burns our beds. We’ll respawn at the center of the world, we’ll be fine.”

“We’ll be scattered, and we’ll lose all our supplies. And then what? We try and fight unarmed? With no armor or potions or gear?”

“We’ve already lost. There is no coming back from this.”

“He’s putting on pressure. He knows the men will fight harder, now that their backs are to the wall. But why? Why is he doing this?”

“There was no retaliation,” the woman who had been the angel’s trainer says, and her voice is cold. “After you started kidnapping his soldiers. This is his retaliation. Long-delayed, maybe, but that’s what it is.”

“So what are we going to do about it?”

“There is nothing we can do. _Nothing_ , you understand me? The best we can do is surrender now and negotiate for better terms.”

And then His Lordship says, “I refuse,” and the bickering of the war council ceases.

* * *

“I have a task for you,” His Lordship says.

It lifts its head, keeps its eyes no higher than His Lordship’s chin. He strokes his hand over the top of its head again, and comes to rest over the back of its neck.

“I did not want it to come to this,” he says. “But maybe this is the only way. My dear angel of death—we need you to live up to your name, one last time.”

* * *

It’s terrifyingly easy to sneak into the enemy camp. The angel is small and scrawny and with the wings folded behind its back and hidden beneath a cloak, it can pretend to be just another blond-haired blue-eyed brat roaming the streets.

Technoblade is not an idiot. He posts watchers on the edges of his camp, has overlapping patrol routes that cover each other’s blind spots. But after long observation in the dark of the night, it sees it: an opening. Just small enough that something its size can slip through, after one pair of soldiers walk by and before the next pace that very circuit.

There can be no hesitation. It grips the knife and flint tighter in its hands and takes the opportunity.

It is—small enough, thin enough, quiet enough, to slip behind the tents and skirt around those active soldiers. Here in the gray light of false dawn, everyone is still bleary-eyed, sleepy, sluggish to move. They are either too tired and freshly awake, or too wired after a long night of nothing.

There is a field of soldier’s tents, the savory smell of breakfast in the air, the shuffling and subtle rumbling of horses and wolves—but there. There is a tent that’s bigger than the others, a little more grandiose, with boar’s head banners hanging from the sides.

Technoblade, the captured soldiers had told them, sleeps where he works. And the sun is barely crossing over the horizon now; it’s likely he’ll still be in bed. If it’s lucky, he will be groggy.

No one looks over as it slips behind the tents and approaches it from the side. No one does a double-take as it finds the entrance—there are no guards, and it wonders if it’s arrogance or personal preference—and ducks inside.

Its eyes acclimate quickly. A central war table with maps, and stacks of paper; all things that the Captain would have killed—had killed—to get her hands on. They won’t help now, not when the war is almost over, but perhaps it can bring it back as a trophy in addition to the blood god’s heart.

There’s a rack of weaponry and an armor stand, near the back. It glides forward, barefoot in the dirt, silent and with the element of surprise—

And then something grabs it by the shoulder. It rears back, wings flaring beneath the cloak in alarm, on instinct, bad move but too late, brings up the arm and the hand with the knife to slice upwards—

The assailant grabs its hand and twists both wrists until its fingers numb. Tendons, bones, the chance of fracture. Its hands spasm open and it tries to kick out instead, wings outstretched for balance, aiming for the leg, the groin, _anything_.

“Whoa,” someone says—deep, rumbling, not sleepy at all—and then smoothly brings them both down to the floor, pinning its wings under their own weights. It tucks in its chin and tries twist up and out of the hold; its opponent takes the chance to pin its ankles. It snarls, snaps its teeth—and then there is no air.

“Calm down, kid. You’re fine. Shh.”

Set fire to their camp, His Lordship had said. Kill that bloody god if you can.

Staring up into the eyes of a monster, it wonders if this is the last time it will disappoint His Lordship. Please let it be so. Oh, if the stars are good—

And then the pressure on its throat lets up, not enough for it to twist and retaliate, but just enough that it can draw in a shaking breath.

“Knew we had something runnin’ around in here,” the blood god says, as there’s shouting and sudden light and men and women swarming the room. He doesn’t look over his shoulder at them. “Or someone, I s’ppose. You alright, kid?”

It doesn’t know what to do, what to say. It blinks.

“Technoblade,” someone says over the blood god’s shoulder. “You alright?”

“I’m fine, I’m fine, don’t worry. Everyone else alright?”

“Yes. We’ve closed up the hole in the patrols, but no one else has slipped through.”

“That’s good,” the blood god sighs, and gets up. He brings the angel up with him with one hand gripping at its shoulder, fingers curled lightly over its throat, but it can feel the latent strength beneath the leather glove. It stays still. No use in provoking the sleeping dragon.

And then he says, “Our trap worked, then,” and the rest of the night—falls away.

* * *

When it comes to, its hands are bound.

These are ropes. Strong ones, hewn and braided tight. Knotted by someone who knows how to incapacitate, like the Captain, like it had learned how to when—

Breathe.

It rotates its wrists in the ropes, but no, they remain as they are: palms facing up and out. Its ankles are free. At least it isn’t hogtied, like the Captain likes to do.

And its wings are—

Surprised, in disbelief, it spreads its wings.

“Yeah, thought you wouldn’t appreciate it,” someone says, and it twists around, scrambles to its knees, moves away. The blood god in the chair nearby doesn’t move, doesn’t shift, doesn’t lunge forward and press it back down into the dirt again.

It’s not hard to see the eyes behind the mask at all, but what it means—the angel doesn’t know.

“I was gonna ask you,” Technoblade continues, legs crossed and cheek resting on a fist balanced on the armrest. “If you were gonna try and kill me if I undid your ropes, but, y’know, I think I know the answer to that.”

It debates. They’re still in the General’s—the blood god’s—tent. The table is nearby, it is still barefoot, he is not too far away that he will be able to immediately lunge and apprehend it, but it doesn’t know how much time has passed.

And there is someone else in the room, one who’s been loitering in the dark by the entrance to the tent, finally someone has shown a modicum of smarts and given a high-ranking officer of the enemy side an actual guard—

“He’s oathsworn, remember?” the presence by the exit says, and it would recognize that voice anywhere.

It doesn’t turn around. The Lieutenant who had been the first—the one it had—the one the Captain of the Intelligence Division had started its training with walks into view.

He looks—better. He isn’t as pale anymore, but of course he isn’t, he’s not losing precious heart’s blood to the knife of the angel of death. He’s walking properly, smoothly, and it recognizes the gait.

“Yeah, you did say that,” Technoblade says, and he sounds thoughtful. He still doesn’t look away from it.

“And you still didn’t bind the wings?”

“Sneegsnag.” The blood god lifts his head, turns to look at his Lieutenant, but it can’t hear. It needs to, it _needs to know_ if they are about to do the responsible thing and remove its avenues of resistance. It cannot let that go unanswered—it will need to kick, and bite, and screech and scream and use the unbound wings to its full advantage at least until—

“I’ve told you before, that’s just cruel.”

“It’s pragmatic. I never thought I’d have to encourage you to do the more _pragmatic_ thing, Technoblade.”

“First time for everythin’, and hey. There are lines in the sand. We can restrain him without resortin’ to—” He pauses.

“Some wing thing I’m not getting?” The Lieutenant huffs, but it’s not in anger, not in annoyance, just—something that it doesn’t know how to interpret. “Alright then. How do you suggest we keep him from running, then?”

“A warnin’.” Technoblade looks back to the angel, and beneath those eyes it freezes in the dirt. Its wings are still flared, knees and feet in position to spring up, and that doesn’t help its case of—

“You’ve gotta behave,” the blood god says, and it’s so kindly done that it doesn’t know what to think. “Okay? We won’t have to bind your wings, or tie you up any more than we have to, if you promise not to harm any of my people, or try to run.”

“If you do,” Sneegsnag says, and there is no kindness in him today. Just exhaustion, and beneath it, a steel heart. “Then we’re going to have to put you under, kid, alright? Knock you out until the war’s over. Do you understand?”

If it behaves, then it is betraying His Lordship. But if it pretends to behave, it can always look for an opening to—escape, sabotage, do something that will not tighten its lungs and make anxiety rise in its chest.

It doesn’t trust its own voice. It nods instead, and something loosens in Sneegsnag’s posture.

The blood god grunts. “C’mon, then. Let’s get this over with.”

* * *

They walk to the edge of the camp. People are truly awake now, sharp-eyed, light-stepped. It glances around, but there are no holes in their defense. Their patrols overlap. They all have their weapons, and the smell of breakfast is enticing in the air. They are well-fed and well-trained and well-supplied, and now it’s no wonder His Lordship is losing.

People stare as they pass by, Technoblade, Sneegsnag, the angel of death. Two guards fall in behind from outside the tent entrance, and now there are people surrounding it, front and back. It glances at their weaponry out of the corner of its eyes—swords, all of them, with the occasional handaxe and crossbow slung at their belts.

So it truly had been a trap. It wonders _What for?_ before it muffles the thought and wrenches its mind back to the present. They haven’t forced it to use a respawn waypoint; it is not trapped here. If it can manage to provoke someone into killing it, or get its hands on a weapon, it can get home. But the soldiers here are calm and collected, and the Lieutenant is at its back with his own eagle-eye. There is little to no chance it will get away with it, and if it _fails_ —

It doesn’t know what they will do with a prisoner who has broken its promise, and it remembers the terrible common sense that had lied heavy behind the Lieutenant’s words. It doesn’t doubt that he would ask forgiveness rather than permission, and tie it down until it cannot move or hurt itself again.

It’s those thoughts that accompany it as they reach the edge of the camp, to the makeshift stands. Technoblade had made his ultimatum from these siege towers, two days ago.

Today, with the sun rising behind their backs, the blood god puts his hand on its shoulder. It inhales quickly, just in case, but he doesn’t grasp its throat or push it down to its knees—just holds it still. Far away from the edge, where it can fly, or glide, or commit to the drop and the faster escape.

There are no weapons here that it can reach.

“We gave you a chance,” the god says, with no preamble. Just steady words over a steady tone. There’s blood rushing in the angel’s ears. “We have your so-called angel of death. And I am runnin’ out of patience. Surrender now, or prepare to die.”

It tilts up its head, and stares into the sky.

* * *

His Lordship surrenders.

* * *

Technoblade is not actually the leader of their enemies, just a general they have convinced to their cause. The angel wonders what might have happened if they’d convinced him to His Lordship’s side. Would they have won? How much sooner? Would Technoblade have—

And then it sets the thought aside, because it is present in the peace talks, the negotiation room, at the insistence of His Lordship.

“We’ve already surrendered,” he says, with the gracious voice he uses when he is holding court. “So I’d like my things back, now.”

The angel is standing—not in the middle of the room, but near their enemies. The blood god. The Lieutenant. The assorted other military personnel that have made up the higher officer’s ranks, for the last weeks—months—of the war, whose faces it had memorized on the insistence of the Captain.

“Your _what_ now,” Technoblade says. His voice is unreadable.

“Come here, my angel,” His Lordship says, and—it is bound—the blood god is here—it is a prisoner—but the lord. Its lord.

Oathsworn, it takes a slow step forward, then another when no one stops it, then another. It walks to the other side where His Lordship stands, his own guards captured and taken away, now with no one at his back. The angel is the only one who can guard him now, but even its hands are tied, literally.

“I see what you mean,” Technoblade says, but it’s not addressed to it or the lord. He’s turned his head to look to the Lieutenant instead, who himself has a face like he’s bitten into something sour.

It cannot see its lord’s face, but it can see the smile. “You _will_ allow me this courtesy, won’t you?” His Lordship waves a hand.

Bloodless surrender, peaceful negotiation. It goes to its knees.

Technoblade’s officers are whispering amongst themselves, louder than His Lordship’s court had—unafraid of being hushed or glared at or disciplined for their unruly behavior—but they fall silent when the angel settles by His Lordship’s thigh.

It cannot see the blood god’s face from here either, but it can still hear his voice: glacially cold. “What are you doing?”

“It’s bound to me,” His Lordship says, and rests his hand on the back of its neck.

“Nope,” the Lieutenant says, speaking out of turn—but Technoblade says nothing. The angel tries to look up without moving its head, but the angle is off, and the lord is rubbing circles into its skin. “That’s part of the terms of surrender. You’re not allowed to keep him.”

It throttles the whimper in its throat. Blessedly distracted by his enemies, its lord asks: “So who will inherit control of it? It’s killed countless of your troops. It is oathsworn to me.”

“I’ve heard,” Technoblade says at last. He is quiet, but as on the siege tower earlier this morning: his voice carries. “You made a kid swear an oath to you, even though you know—you were taught, as I was, as we all were—they are only to be used to hold Players accountable.”

His Lordship’s fingers still. It almost wishes he would continue, just to have something to distract itself with. “And I did. We’ve used one for its intended purpose. What is the problem with that?”

“So what oath was it?”

It closes its eyes. It does not need to hear this—but it is under the lord’s hand, and this room is full of people who would sooner see it knocked out and put to sleep until the war and the negotiations are over than allow it to leave, and it needs to know what is going to happen.

“For a year and a day, it will serve me, or those of my choosing. It will obey all orders, turn away no request, be obedient to the last and beyond, if I wish it.”

Silence. And then: “And the return clause?”

“What?”

“I’m not an idiot,” the blood god says, oblivious to the way that the angel’s breathing has sped up. Please, please. Not this question. Not this shame, in front of the god who’d given it advice when there was no benefit to him. “There’s always a return clause for an oath like that.”

The lord looks around. There are only Technoblade and his people in this room, and further back, the lady that they’ve put as their leader, their figurehead, their civilian commander. His Lordship says, reluctantly, “I will do my best to win the war, on behalf of our people.”

“Well, you sure failed in that,” Sneegsnag snorts. He looks like he’s about to say more, before an armored swordswoman next to him elbows him in the ribs.

“Oaths can be transferred,” Technoblade says coolly, ignoring the quiet scuffle going on behind him. “So you will transfer it to us. As part of the peace terms.”

“I don’t believe that’s _necessary_ —”

“It is,” the lady who is the civilian leader of the enemy side says, for the first time. “It is one of the non-negotiable clauses.”

His Lordship’s hand spasms. His fingers close around the back of its neck, between the vertebrae, and he is not a fighter but he doesn’t have to be right now, all he would have to do is twist his wrist and he’d snap its neck.

It stills, as much as it can, and prays.

“So you have a choice,” Technoblade says. It is dead silent. Quiet enough to hear a pin drop. “Either you do it willingly, or we start having _problems_.”

A moment. Two, then His Lordship says, “I transfer the oath I bear,” and lifts his hand away. It almost rises up on its knees to chase after it, before it catches itself. “Think of it as—war reparations, I suppose. Surely the weapon that is the angel of death is enough to cover any fees?”

* * *

They give the contract—the oath—to the blood god. To Technoblade.

“What,” the man—the new lord—says. His voice is flat. The angel curls in on itself, confused, forces the wings to stillness on its back even though they still hurt.

“You’re the most qualified to take care of him,” their lady says. She is cool, precise, pragmatic—but not unmerciful. There is kindness lingering beneath that level tone. “The rest of us won’t be able to handle him if he ever snaps. It’s too dangerous. You’re the only one who can keep up with him.”

“More like,” the Lieutenant snorts, “the kid’s the only one who can keep up with Techno.”

“We digress."

“The stinger is, that bastard’s not wrong. Kid’s more weapon than kid right now. And with the post-war mess—”

“We just don’t have the time or the people,” the lady says, and there is a fragile quality to her voice now. Soft-hearted, its trainer had called their enemy’s leader, and it can see why now. But even though she is unbalanced, her shoulders are set back. There is steel in her spine. “Please, Techno.”

There is silence. It glances through the room again, from beneath the fringe of hair. None of the advising council look angry, at least. No one is going for their weapons, nor holding themselves like they have a concealed one. It doesn’t know what’s going on, exactly, but at least it knows how to do this.

“Alright, Sophie.” Its new lord sighs again. “If that’s what you want.”

* * *

People filter out. The lady, and her advising council, and the other officers of the enemy’s—no, it has a new lord now—of _their_ militia leave the room. Some of them linger on the doorstep, hesitating, glancing between it and the door and the blood god in turns.

The angel keeps its head bowed, standing in the center of the room. It is on its feet, braced shoulder-width, hands folded behind its back in parade rest. It’s not too cold in here that it can’t keep the stance, even with its bare feet.

Lieutenant Sneegsnag is the only one to stay. He leans against the door, arms folded across his chest. There’s an expression on his face but he’s looking at it, he’s one of the new lord’s trusted Lieutenants, can’t let him know that it is being anything less than perfect, can’t—

Technoblade shifts in his chair. Its attention snaps back to him.

“So,” he starts, and coughs. Is he sick? But no, then he goes on: “So. What’s your name, kid?”

“He was—” Sneegsnag starts, but Technoblade raises a hand and he quiets down.

It doesn’t understand. “I’m the Angel of Death, sir,” it says, because surely that’s what he means. It is a weapon, its contract has been turned over to somebody else, and there are months to go before it can even think about—

“I told you,” Sneegsnag says, after a long moment where it wonders what’s going on. He sounds tired.

Technoblade sighs, and there’s something in that voice it doesn’t understand, but that’s fine, he’s continuing: “Alright, then. Baby steps it is.”

“You see now why I wanted you to take him?”

“Sophie would prob’bly have started crying,” Technoblade huffs, and shakes his head. He rises from his chair, and— _oh_.

The angel has been on the same battlefields as the blood god before, had soared overhead as their respective factions had fought, had spotted him from leagues away. It had known that he is tall, but it’s one thing to see him with a sword in hand, cape swirling around him, bloody and bloodthirsty, and another to see him stand so close.

“Come on, then,” he says, and gestures. It stays still, uncertain, confused. He gestures again. “Come over here, kid; let’s get you out of those ropes.”

Oh, yes. _Please_ , it almost says, before it swallows down the words. It makes its movements as smooth and graceful as it can instead, gives them something pretty to look at while it steps forward and turns around, wings mantled and raised to get them out of the way.

There’s a pause. The quiet swish of clothing, a little bit of metallic rattling with armor and weaponry. Then there is warmth around its wrists and arms, noticeable even through the ropes.

The blood god is gentle. It hadn’t expected that. By his reputation, by his fighting style, it had expected him to be rough, brisk, efficient—but he’s not.

He takes his time, doesn’t pull at its arms to get it into a better position, gently repositions it when he needs it to move—and he’s warm, and it can feel that.

Its wings are trembling with the effort required to keep them up and mantled—it had used to be able to hold position for much longer than this, and there is frustration and bitterness welling up in its throat that it needs to strangle—by the time that Technoblade is done. “There we go,” he rumbles, voice deep in the throat.

The ropes fall away. It flexes its fingers, testing the range of motion, but doesn’t drop its arms or move away until its new lord does so first.

“Now that that’s done,” he sighs, and murmurs something under his breath that it can’t quite catch. By the door, Sneegsnag raises his chin. “Where are your things?”

What?

“Oh, damn, that’s true,” Sneegsnag says. He drops his arms from his chest to run them through his hair. “We’ve gotta go pick up his stuff from the castle, don’t we?”

“We’ll have to go as part of the post-war shenanigans, too,” Technoblade says, “but I’d like to do that before things get a little too hectic, y’know?”

“Yeah, you’re right. Let’s get you set up to go out, then.”

And then Technoblade turns to it again, rope coiled away and now dismissed, and he’s tilting his head at the angel. “Do you want to come with,” he asks, “or stay here? Stay away? Either way is fine.”

It blinks. It doesn’t understand. Surely Technoblade has a preference. Surely there is a right or wrong answer here, but it’s not allowed to look at the blood god in the face, now, and there is no emotion to read in the set shoulders or the loose hands by his side.

“Whatever you decide, sir,” it says. It doesn’t know where it fits in the hierarchy anymore, but Technoblade is a General in addition to its oathbearer and the Lieutenant is a Lieutenant. This, at least, is easy.

Sneegsnag sighs, loud and long. Technoblade—doesn’t move.

“Come with, then,” he says at last, “so that you can tell me if they miss anythin’ or try to lose any of your stuff.”

The Lieutenant mutters something under his breath. It sounds like—cursing, cadence and pitch is right for it, short and sharp and angry, but the General is waving it forward. This is familiar. It knows how to do this, and it clutches onto that fact with both hands.

It falls in at the lord’s heel like a proper soldier should, two steps back and one to the left, and Sneegsnag takes his own place by Technoblade’s side.

* * *

“Are you missing anythin’?”

It takes a look around its small room. It is the same as when its trainer had arranged this private room for it. There is the cot, and the chest at the foot of the bed, and the weapons rack and the small table with its whetstones and sharpening oils. It has its boots and bag and small notebook with pen.

It has its knife and its shortsword, and those it offers to the new lord. The lord.

Lord Technoblade takes the sword and unsheathes the first few centimeters of it, inspecting the steel. It can’t see his eyes beneath the mask, but it imagines that they must glow the same unnatural hues as the enchantments on the blade.

“Pretty good,” he says at last, and sheaths it again. But instead of taking it away, he gives it back to the angel. “Keep hold of it, alright?”

It doesn’t understand. Doesn’t he want it unarmed in his presence, until he knows it will obey orders? Or maybe it’s a test. Maybe he’s just that confident.

It slides the knife and shortsword back into its belt, and feels settled again at the familiar weight.

“But is that all?” Lord Technoblade gestures at the room again, now emptied of everything useful. “You’re not missin’ anything?”

It is not missing any weaponry or gear. But it can still feel it, with the wings folded against its back, even when it’s trying to move them as little as possible to avoid that flare of pain—

It is damaged goods, it needs to tell the new lord, he deserves to know what it is he is taking responsibility for.

“I can’t fly,” it says, and braces itself.

The air stills. It can feel the lord’s attention come down upon it like a hammer striking an anvil, and any moment now he will raise his hand and show his displeasure, or fill those lungs to shout, or—

But the blow never comes. The shouting never comes. Instead he asks, “What?”

Do it fast. Rip the bandage off. Better to get it over with. “I’m missing feathers. Right now, I can’t fly.”

“Where are they?” His voice is—even. Unreadable. “You should’ve regenerated all of them at a respawn, unless—”

He pauses. He understands. How does he know? Most people don’t think about this, because this is one of the secrets of the Winged, those who the Universe acknowledges after a finished adventure on a Hardcore world, but—

“He took one of your feathers, didn’t he,” Lord Technoblade says, and it is not a question.

Oddly, blessedly, that makes it easier to answer. “His Lordship—wished for a feather quill.”

Absolute silence. And then: “Hey, Sneeg? Where’s the guy right now, do you know?”

* * *

His Lordship—no, no longer _His Lordship_ , but he still deserves respect as—as—

Its previous owner is in his office, of course. In the middle of peace negotiations, at a disadvantage, with an entire advisor’s council to placate—he will be in the middle of writing letters, right now.

No one stops them. Lord Technoblade strides past the militia guards, and half of them are staring after him but the rest are staring after _it_. Wide-eyed, jaw-dropped, suspicious, angered, knowing, _betrayed_ —

Lord Technoblade opens the door with deceptive gentleness, strides so evenly across the room that for a moment it thinks that he is gliding, and then punches its old owner in the jaw from across the desk.

“I know we’re politically not allowed to kill you right now.” Lord Technoblade’s voice is quiet, and cold, and so devastatingly, disconcertingly light that its wings are mantling, its feet bracing for a fight, before it realizes and catches itself. Thankfully no one notices, everyone’s attention caught by the blood god and his terrifying presence. “But watch your step. I have a lot of friends, y’know, and now all of them know who this kid is and whose protection he is under.”

“It’s not a kid,” its old lord snorts, working his jaw like it’s sore. He is kind and graciously correcting Lord Technoblade, even though it wishes that he would find a more tactful way to challenge the blood god. But the eyes—

He is the old lord. It has a new one, now, to serve and protect. It slides from where it’d frozen by the door to its proper place, one hand at its hip on the pommels of its weapons.

“It’s hardly even human,” the old lord is saying, not even noticing its movement. “It’s _in_ human, and that’s something none of you understood.”

“That’s a _kid_ ,” its new lord returns flatly, and catches Lieutenant Sneegsnag by the shoulder mid-stride. At that speed and trajectory, the Lieutenant would have gone straight over the lord’s desk. Why? What for? An attack? But the war is over, and Lord Technoblade has already rocked the shaky foundations of a peace with his own slippage of violent behavior.

“And I’ll be taking _this_.”

Lord Technoblade plucks the feather quill out of the old lord’s hand. His hand is quick but his fingers are gentle, and he is holding the feather by the shaft, not the vanes. It still shivers for a moment before it can strangle the involuntary reaction.

“So watch out.” The air is heavy. There is an unnamable weight, and it breathes in slowly, and shakes out its wings to loosen the muscles there. There’s no guarantee that Lord Technoblade will need its help, but—just in case. “And good _day_.”

The old lord rises from his desk—upset, angry, he is going to raise his hand and grab it by the throat and—

But no, he’s not looking at it, he’s looking at Lord Technoblade who is sweeping out, coldly imperious, every inch of him the violent grace that makes him so devastating on the field. It remains in place for one moment—two—but no. The old lord doesn’t move forward. He doesn’t make a move.

It shouldn’t linger, it shouldn’t _hesitate_ , the danger is gone and now it should heel and be on point—but Lord Technoblade is paused just beyond the threshold. There’s a moment, if it wants to take it—

It looks His Lordship, the old lord, the first owner, in the eye. He is—unreadable, an anger lining his shoulders and stance that makes its feathers puff up.

And then the Lieutenant is bringing up the rear, and Lord Technoblade makes a noise low in his throat, and they’re striding past the slack-jawed soldiers and into the crisp afternoon air.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sophie is [SophieTexas](https://www.twitch.tv/sophietexas), another streamer; Sneegsnag is, of course, [Sneegsnag](https://www.youtube.com/user/sneegsnag).


	4. a mudslide when I cry

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CW: dehumanization, objectification, (referenced) food restriction as punishment, (referenced) sleep restriction as punishment

He is a busy man; after they exit the very castle he had sieged, Lord Technoblade calls a meeting in his tent. Lieutenant Sneegsnag takes up a post at his shoulder, as they all gather around his maps and bend over it.

“At ease,” Lord Technoblade says when it hesitates in its own place. He’s looking over at it but he’s loose-shouldered, open-handed, as laid back as someone can be when there is work to be done. “You can relax for a little while. This won’t take long.”

It is newly transferred, its oath is now the lord’s but some of the glances between his people are narrow-eyed and doubtful. That’s understandable. It has killed many of their troops, perhaps even they themselves.

It finds a corner in the back of the room—between the backup netherite armor displayed proudly on its stand and the rack of weapons—and settles into wait. This is easy. They had taught this in its first week as a soldier.

Its feather is in the lord’s pocket, safely tucked away. It can feel it, every bristle and barb. He had straightened out the vanes before he’d put it away, had handled it by the shaft with gentle fingers it had shivered under, but there is nothing he can do for the cut quill.

It cannot feel the ink, not really, feathers aren’t that sensitive—but it imagines that it can. Cold, and wet, and a dripping sort of feeling that usually heralds blood, not ink.

It feels untethered, unmoored, set loose from the anchor. But right now it’s in the dark—a shadow cast over its head—and it hasn’t slept since it had first blanked out beneath the lord’s hands, at its capture—no, since before that.

It has been told _At ease_. It does not need to pay attention, not really, just enough to go when the lord calls, but otherwise—nothing.

It drifts.

* * *

Sometime after, the scent of fresh-baked bread fills the tent. It looks up; it’s an aide at the door, young, baby fat still on his cheeks, a platter in his hands and a basket hooked in his elbow.

He walks in uninvited but unafraid, making his rounds through the gathered soldiers with the ease of someone who’s done it before. Busy with their work, most look up only when he taps them on the shoulder; they give him smiles or quiet thank-yous in no pattern that it can tell.

Eventually he is done with his rounds—Lord Technoblade shakes his head with a smile, and that’s something it notes and wonders if it’s because of the potential poisoning factor—and makes his way to it where it stands, in the back.

“Do you want anything?” he asks it, as though it is like him.

It glances over to the lord again, but he is busy, papers scattered in front of him, inkwell and quill near his hand. This is such a small matter. He shouldn’t be disturbed.

It shakes its head, and the aide raises his eyebrows, a muscle jumping near his jaw, but doesn’t contest it. He goes, and takes the mouth-watering smell of bread and roast beef with him.

Lord Technoblade starts up again soon after, his low voice steady, a lull, water lapping against—against—

The lord continues his meeting. It resettles into _At ease_ , parade rest, and waits. 

* * *

“Hey, kid.”

It is by the lord’s side before he has finished speaking. Thank the stars for the training, for the reflexes—it blinks itself awake from that half-asleep state and tips its chin, shows the back of its neck, without needing to think about it. “Yes, sir?”

There’s a pause. Then the lord continues, voice now more even than before: “Did you eat anything earlier?”

It’s not disobedient, it is not _presumptive_. “Of course not, sir,” it tells him, and is so busy grappling with the fact that he thinks it _that undisciplined_ that it almost misses his dangerous stillness—but only almost.

“A thousand leagues,” Lieutenant Sneegsnag says, and he sounds—tired.

But it drains the tension out of Lord Technoblade. “Right,” he says, and sighs. Says again, after: “Right. So then, uh. What’s your favorite food, kid?”

The uncertainty and apprehension that had seeped out of it in the last thirty seconds comes swelling back in again. Why is the lord asking? Is this a sign of favor, in front of all his subordinates? Is this something it will need to pay him back for? Giving a reward even before demonstrated good behavior isn’t right.

It doesn’t know how to answer. It almost rocks back on its feet before it catches itself, presses its wings tighter to its back before those can give it away.

“A thousand leagues,” its lord repeats, like that makes any sense. He straightens from his war table and gestures to someone else in the room. “Everybody all set?”

“All set,” one of his soldiers responds. “Go get some grub, sir, and don’t think that we didn’t see you avoid eating, either.”

“I get no respect around here,” Lord Technoblade says, but it’s not—it’s not in anger, there is no offense, is it supposed to—demonstrate, enforce respect, what—

And then the lord is gesturing to _it_ , and it snaps to attention. “Come on, let’s get some air,” he says, and turns.

Beneath the weight of the gazes in the tent, it follows as he leaves.

It’s bright outside. That’s the first thing that it notices, squinting in the sun. The sounds of a war camp packing up fills the air, and that’s odd, not what it had expected—but what does it know? It’s not its place to know.

Lord Technoblade leads them both to the source of the good smells in the air. The crowd parts for him as they go, and most nod but some salute and others laugh, good-naturedly, calling out some bit of news that they think he will want to know.

He doesn’t seem to mind this bit of disrespect, either. He nods back and tips his head and flashes his teeth and makes short comments, more acknowledgement than conversation, but no one seems surprised. They all let him make his way through without a word.

They stare at _it_ , but they look away soon after. It’s not sure why. It is the only winged in this camp, as far as it can tell, and its wings are always a source of great curiosity everywhere it goes. For it to be unremarked upon, now that it is Lord Technoblade’s—

No, that would make sense. They are informal with their General but the soldiers still make way for him in the first place. He is respected, even if not to the old lord’s standards. It is under direct command. No one would challenge him to his face.

Still, it doesn’t mean it can be too relaxed. It follows at the lord’s heels all the way through the camp and into the cook’s tent, waits behind him as he exchanges a short conversation with the cooks, and steps forward when he is about to be handed a platter.

There are two bowls and two cups and two small loaves of bread. But that makes sense. He is known as the blood god, a fearsome warrior who is a head taller than most of his soldiers, and he is the General besides. No one would begrudge him a second serving.

The cook stares at it where its hands are outstretched, waiting for the cook to place the serving tray in its hands, and then looks up. It cannot do the same, but there must be some expression on the lord’s face—perhaps a nod, or a tilt of his head—because she presses her lips together, shakes her head, and gently hands it over.

“You take care of him, alright?” she says, eyeing it up and down but it’s not said to it. She’s addressing the lord instead. “He looks far too skinny.”

“Trying my best,” the lord says, as though that makes any sense. “Thanks.”

“Of course, of course.”

They leave. It follows two steps behind and one to the left, carefully balancing the serving tray, and maps the route in its head as Lord Technoblade takes them on a winding route through the camp and towards—the horses, and the wolves.

There are less soldiers here, more horsemasters and houndmasters, and as they pass by Lord Technoblade drops his hand to pat a horse on the neck, crouches briefly to scratch a wolf behind the ears.

Standing behind his shoulder, it takes a moment to wonder if he will ever look at it like that. If he ever did, that would be—the best-case scenario. Then it would never be obsolete. Never replaced.

But eventually they make it to wherever the lord has wanted to go. It’s a small clearing not far from camp, with fallen wooden logs to sit on. He sits down with a sigh and a flick of his cloak, and gestures.

It drops the platter into his hands, slowly, carefully, and then steps back and to the side.

“I take my meals alone,” Lord Technoblade says, without looking up from where he’s fussing with the plates. “Or, well. Used to. Guess that’s different now. Come on, sit down, stop hoverin’.”

Maybe this is a test. He is a new lord, of course he wants to know how obedient his new soldier is. He will eat, and it will sit and watch, and by the end he will be satisfied that it will not eat or ask after rations it has not earned without prior permission.

It picks its place carefully—a seat at a lower height, within grabbing distance, to the side so that he can see those who are approaching from the direction of the camp—and sits down slowly.

But then he places a serving in front of it, and the test becomes—hard. Very hard.

He does not look in its direction as he eats, at least. That makes it easier to hold the bowl in its lap and its fingers beneath it, far from temptation.

This is like training. If it remains patient, he will—tire of the game, perhaps, or at least deem it acceptable—and he will take it away. Then he might give it—hardtack, probably, or maybe the bread if he finds it worthy—

“What are you doing?”

It stops itself from flinching at the last minute. Sheer will, good training, and it needs to show him that it has better manners than breaking form, it—

“Is there something wrong with the food?” Lord Technoblade peers up from his bowl of stew. “Damn, are you—did she give you meat and you’re vegetarian or something?”

“No, sir,” it says, because that’s an easy thing to answer—but the rest is not. It hesitates.

The lord sets down his spoon, slowly, deliberately. “Then why aren’t you eating?”

It is startled into looking up, and only at the last minute does it remember that it has not been given permission to look him in the eye.

“I’m allowed to eat?” it asks, staring desperately at his ear.

The lips quirk down, but still he does not yell or throw things. Instead all he says is, “Three meals a day,” and as though he has not just rocked the foundations of its world, he goes back to his food. He does not look at it again.

Slowly, carefully—this still might be a test but it cannot ever waste the opportunity for food—it picks up the spoon.

* * *

Lord Technoblade does not stop it from eating at any point. But after, when their bowls and plates are back with the cooks for cleanup, he pulls it aside to an open field.

The camp is busy behind them—packing up, preparing to move into the castle, maybe, except no one has explained the situation to it—but it does not need to know, it only needs to follow orders—

The blood god clears his throat. It refocuses.

“So,” he says, and his voice is quiet. Much softer than it’d expected him to be. “Do you know how to fix damaged quills?”

“Through respawn, sir,” it answers. Damaged wings and feathers are reformed whole when one goes through the respawn process, but—it is the angel of death, it has performed all its duties, shown all respect, obeyed all orders—but this is a new owner, and the rules are different.

The rules are _different_ , or maybe they’re—the same, with a few more additions, like the protocol difference between the lord and the trainer and the Captain.

“True,” Lord Technoblade says, and it realizes: he’d paused. For what, it doesn’t know. But he continues, “There are other ways, though, of fixing it. Healing it, if you will.”

Here in the field with their backs to the camp and no one coming to look for them, Lord Technoblade withdraws the feather from his pocket. He handles it gently, cradling it between both hands even though that’s unnecessary when he could grip it by the quill or the barb or the vane, any of it, it is only a part of the angel and the angel now belongs to him—

He tips the feather into one cupped hand and raises the other to wipe lightly at it, palm to palm with a feather in between. He does not have his gloves on. His callouses are rough, but they are soft on the bristles, and it is momentarily distracted by the way his clipped-short nails are gleaming with lacquer or maybe something else, black as night with a gem-like shine.

Then it realizes: his fingertips are glimmering.

“Hm,” Lord Technoblade says. He’s glancing thoughtfully down at the feather; he’s not addressing it. He passes his hand over the feather again, this time gently stroking from calamus to rachis to tip, and the angel shivers beneath his touch.

“That’s a little more complicated than I’d like,” he murmurs, “but—if I—yeah. Yeah, that’ll work.”

Slowly, as though he is caught in a dream, the lord raises his hand and lays it flat just above the feather in his palm. His index and third fingertips start to glow; at first lightly, but then the stardust fractures and the tips are left shining in the way that crystals do, or rainbow glass panes—and a small ember blooms to life between those fingers, flaring in the colors of a miniature galaxy—

And then he lowers his hand to press it into the quill, right where it’s been cut, and it feels his touch like a jolt, static, something electric.

Its wings puff up where they are on its back. It can’t help it, and he is doing—something—reaching out into that indescribable space where a server world ends and another begins—

Something sighs, low and soft, giving way. The cut stings, but it’s burning clean beneath Lord Technoblade’s rainbow ember, and when he lifts his hand away again the quill is whole.

It blinks, and closes its eyes, and mentally reaches out—half convinced it’s not real, a hallucination, a trick—but no. There had been a cut in its skin-sinew-soul, and the angel had been aware of it like it is aware of all its cuts and bruises, but now it is closed over. Healed.

“There we go,” Lord Technoblade breathes, and rubs his thumb over the tips of those burning fingers. The ember dies without fanfare; but the stardust lingers, staining the skin like he’s dipped them into glittering ink. He doesn’t seem to notice. “That’ll do it.”

And then he offers the feather back to it, open-handed, as though he’s not just worked some greater magic.

* * *

The feather resettles in its wing, and it feels odd. As though it is slightly—misaligned, even as it settles into what should be its proper place.

It’s an apt description for how the rest of its day goes. It follows around Lord Technoblade, trying to anticipate his movements and what he’ll request and what he wants, but everyone here is respectful of him. No one is trying to undermine his position, or jockey for his favor, or any of the other small political things that had made the old lord press his lips together.

He doesn’t seem to understand how it should be wielded, either. Lord Technoblade sends messengers and soldiers scurrying with equal frequency, and it watches any who come close for ill intentions, but whenever it steps forward to intercept—check their weapons—place itself between its lord and a potential threat—he waves it off.

Lieutenant Sneegsnag, when it checks on the man out of the corner of its eye, seems to be as equally as nonchalant. And maybe this is fine; the blood god certainly deserves his name and title as such. But it means they are being careless, which means it is its job to shore in the gaps.

It tries. Stars, it tries. But it makes a mistake in the afternoon, when the sun is setting on its first day with a new owner.

It’s a courier, and it’s seen those all day, knows to recognize them by the pin on their breast and the swiftness with which they move through the camp, but this one is—different.

She tries to touch it, and—she is not the trainer, or the Captain, or the lord—no, that’s the old lord—and its new lord has given no instructions—

She is not allowed. It responds the way it is supposed to, grabs her wrist and pivots and pulls her to the ground, pulling out its knife with its other hand. It steadies the blade over her heart.

“Lord Technoblade,” it asks, without looking away from its target. Her eyes are wide, and she’s stock-still, but she’s still got that grip on her knife like she’s about to use it and it cannot allow her to do that either; it has a duty, it is here with a purpose. “What do you want me to do with her?”

There is silence. It cannot look up—that would defeat the point of this pin, when it is still light and she is heavier with flexing abdominal muscles that are just waiting for a moment of weakness, to flip, to—

“Hold,” Lord Technoblade is snarling, to someone, over its head—the soldiers. The bristling weaponry. “ _Hold_ , gods damn it, and sheathe your weapons. He’s not—”

He cuts himself off—stars, did he realize—but if he’d noticed that it had almost looked at his face, he doesn’t say a word.

“Kid,” he says instead, and its attention narrows in, a body in orbit realigning with its star. “Kid, I need you to put away the knife, alright?”

It doesn’t understand. But that’s an order, and it is—a soldier, bound by contract, sworn and bloodied and owned—

It puts away the knife. Almost immediately there are hands reaching for it—the shoulder, the arms, the _wings_ —

They’re not allowed, _Look but don’t touch_ only the lord is allowed—but he is—

He’s forcing them all back, his low voice rumbling, and he isn’t shouting but he is still the loudest in the room.

And then he’s grasping it by the shoulder and hauling it up, and he is—upset, angry—

It goes limp, and—disconnects.

* * *

“Where did he even _get_ a knife?”

“I re-armed him,” Lord Technoblade says, from somewhere above it, voice muffled as though through walls or water. “You didn’t _see_ him, he was—Sneeg, tell them—”

“Sir, with the greatest respect—are you sure re-arming is a good idea? He almost killed—”

More murmurs. Conversation. It does not need to know; it is not its place to know.

* * *

Eventually the other voices leave, and it is—dark, but not as dark as it had been in—

There is still light, sneaking in beneath the tent flap, giving the canvas a soft glow. It is in the tent again, the little area off of Lord Technoblade’s war room. There is a writing desk and a chest and a bed—it is seated on the bed—it’s not supposed to be here.

It rolls up and off and onto its feet, digs the toes of its shoes into the dirt. It inhales slowly, flexes its hands, flutters its wings. No ropes, no bindings. But there is no weight at its hip.

It has been disarmed.

“You called me Lord, back there,” Lord Technoblade says softly from the chair at the desk. He is cast in shadow; his face is unreadable beneath that skull-shaped mask. “Why did you call me that?”

It stiffens. Is it not supposed to? His arms are folded across his chest and he is—frowning, oh, stars—

“Apologies, master,” it says, and swallows down the bile before it can throw up. This is fine. This is what its lord—its owner—wants. It will not be cast out, it will not be given away again, it will stay with an oathbearer who has allowed three meals in one day and healed its feather, even though it has done nothing of use. For someone as kind as that, this is nothing.

But that must not be the right title either because the blood god makes a noise in his throat, halfway between a growl and a question, and it can’t help itself: it flinches.

It can barely hear his next words over the ringing in its ears, but it must, it must: “Absolutely not.” A sigh, soft, and still its heart is pounding in its chest when he adds: “Can you call me Technoblade?”

Can it call him by his name when he deserves more respect than that? “I—” it starts, scrambling to get its thoughts in order, the correct words in the correct sequence of events so that it can explain. But it blanks, and that fuels the panic, and the panic runs the rest of its thoughts from its mind.

If it is not respectful—if it does not show appreciation for the chain of command—then, then—

The world fuzzes out.

“It’s okay,” someone is saying when it tunes back in, half-panicking and half-convinced it is being delirious. “Shh, it’s okay, everything’s fine, kid, c’mon. Breathe for me. Deep breath.”

It breathes in on autopilot, holds it. Doesn’t let it go until the lord adds, “Breath out, now, there you go.”

This repeats. In, hold, out. In, hold out.

At least this time it doesn’t take as long for it to get a hold of itself. It grips its own hands tighter, digs in its fingernails, uses the sharpness of the feeling to bring itself back in.

“Better?” he asks, and still his voice is—gentle. Lord Technoblade hasn’t moved from his chair but he’s leaning forward now, elbows braced on his knees, slumping forward until he’s of height with it. Whatever he sees on its face must please him, though, because after a moment he sighs and hangs his head. “Damn, kid. For a moment there I thought—”

He cuts himself off. He’s silent for a moment. “So names are a no-go. What else can you call me, though?”

He sounds curious. It runs its tongue over its teeth. “Sir,” it says slowly. But that’s the basics, the very least of what it should call the one to whom its loyalties ultimately lie—

“Let’s go with that.” The lord laughs a little under his breath. “I really don’t need that much bowing and scraping, alright? I mean, yeah, respect’s nice and all, but you don’t see Sneeg calling me ‘sir’ or ‘milord’ all the time. Hells, not even _half_ the time.”

Lieutenant Sneegsnag is—incomparable to it. He is higher ranked, he has been supporting Technoblade since the beginning, his is a fundamentally different situation.

“And anyway,” he continues, and looks up. “Your situation is—different. You can call me whatever you want, and I won’t care.”

“But—” it swallows pre-emptively, shuts itself up, but its lord doesn’t try to shut it down. He doesn’t look at it in disappointment that it’s spoken out of turn.

He waits, and watches, and still he stays in that slumped position even though it must hurt his shoulders, and he isn’t towering over it anymore.

It manages to find its words eventually. “You deserve the respect.”

“I won’t care,” he repeats, like that’s the end of it.

And—isn’t it? He is the lord, he is the oathbearer, its contract has passed to him. What he says goes. He makes the final decision.

First the promise of three meals a day, and then the healed feather—its _wings_ —and now this. The list of rewards is becoming terrifyingly long, and what has it done for him in return? Attacked one of his people and been a nuisance in his presence.

“So to sum it up—” he starts counting off on his fingers. “You get three square meals a day, and you knock it off with that ‘Lord’ nonsense, and you don’t—what _was_ that earlier, by the way?”

He sounds genuinely confused. It is confused, too. “Sir?”

“The—” he sighs long, through the nose, and levers himself backwards—it braces itself—but no, he’s just leaning back to sit properly in his chair. “The thing with the knife, earlier. Why did you attack her?”

He doesn’t sound—angry, at least. Just neutral, maybe a little curious.

“She tried to touch me,” it says slowly, sounding out the words like uncertain steps on ice. “She didn’t have permission, and Sir didn’t give me instructions about if anyone was allowed.”

There’s a pause. “I didn’t give you any instruction to… let anybody touch you?”

“Sir.” There’s a moment of abject panic where it tries to remember—had he and it just hadn’t remembered?

But Technoblade is saying, “No, no, that’s right,” and there’s air in the room again.

“Not the way I would’ve put it,” he mutters, with an air like he can’t quite decide if he should laugh or—something else—but he’s continuing, it needs to pay attention. “Okay, kid. Listen carefully.”

It comes to attention, spine ramrod straight, raises its chin and keeps its eyes on the air above Technoblade’s head. Even still, it has a harder time paying attention than it should. What if he says that they _are_ allowed to touch? Then they can push it down and pull out its feathers, or, or—

“If you’re uncomfortable,” he says, “or you feel like someone is about to hurt you, absolutely knife ‘em. I’ll take care of any fallout. But you can’t kill anybody, okay?”

It is allowed to—defend itself, but nothing more. It is not allowed to kill anyone.

Or, is it that it is allowed to, and it simply must ask for permission first?

“No one at all, sir?”

“Not unless I tell you it’s okay,” he allows, working his jaw. His face is unreadable, in the dark, under the mask. “If I’m doing my job right, you won’t ever have to.”

That doesn’t make any sense. It is in his service, this is _its job_ —but this is what he wants. It listens, and it obeys, and if it does so—performs to the best of its abilities, satisfies his wants—maybe he will keep it.

“Yes, sir,” it says, and watches some previously unknown tension leave Technoblade’s frame.

“Okay,” he says, and sighs. He stands. “Okay. You’re all good now? Ready to go?”

It is unarmed, but it still has its hands and feet and wings. If he needs it to do anything, it will be able to carry out his will. “Yes, sir.”

He doesn’t look too convinced, but he turns around, and shows it the additional favor of holding the tent flap open for it as they leave.

* * *

There is a party that evening. Celebrating the end of the war, a successful campaign, finished negotiations—it doesn’t matter.

What matters is that Technoblade is going, and he is testing its obedience again by offering it a ‘choice’—stay behind, or attend with him?

It is not disobedient. It goes with him, keeps perfect position, wings neatly folded. People stare, but after a while they treat it as it is supposed to be treated, here where it is an escort, a guard: part of the decorations, an unspoken feature to Technoblade’s presence.

A surprising number of people speak with him throughout the night. He is the General, it would make sense for him to appear in an honored fashion after a war he’d won and finished, but most approach him with drinks in their hands and not weaponry tucked away in their sleeves. The ones who keep their distance are all politicians and courtiers and advisors it recognizes from the old lord’s entourage.

The old lord himself is nowhere to be found.

It wonders if it should bring this up to Technoblade, or perhaps one of the others. But its lord is busy, and anyway they aren’t staying for long. Dinner, finger foods, a small amount of discussion held lingering near the walls while the small string quartet plays music.

“This must be a modest celebration compared to what you’re used to,” someone says.

It cannot see Technoblade’s expression from where it is, two steps behind and one to the left, but it can hear his snort as clear as day. “What do you mean?”

“Compared to those thrown at Hypixel, of course, or even your own illustrious Empire.”

Empire?

“Ah, I wouldn’t say that,” he replies, with some amusement. No offense, then. It eases itself off the balls of its feet. “It’s warmer here, for one.”

“I imagine so!” They titter like a songbird as they laugh, but they look like they’re built lightly, all thin frame and gangly limbs. Even unarmed and limited to hand-to-hand, it will be able to take them down.

“Anyway, while I have you here.” Technoblade shifts on his feet, his netherite armors clattering softly beneath his cloak. “Did your side keep any records of your recruited soldiers?”

“Pardon?”

“’cause I asked,” he says, his voice that dangerous amusement. Perhaps not _no_ offense, then. It readies itself. “And none of the captains or lieutenants or anyone, really, who were nominally s’pposed to be takin’ care of your troops kept any records of allergies, or home servers, or emergency contacts. None.”

“And why would we?” The advisor is tense, but they only see the ire of the lord, not the angel lingering in his shadow and waiting for orders. That’s good, it’ll have the advantage of surprise—not that it needs it, but it’s always good to have. “They were here to fight, and besides, they’re all grown Players. They don’t need us holding their hands.”

“Hmm.” Technoblade— _Lord_ Technoblade, the blood god, the spirit of war in this very moment—looms.

The advisor is an advisor, unfamiliar with the battlefield or the spar or the beat of the fight; they take a step backwards.

“I think you’re right,” the god of war says, voice as light as the weightless moment before a dive. “This party isn’t to my taste. Maybe it’s my years of living in the empire talking. Regardless, I hope you enjoy the rest of your night, Ser.”

He’s been holding onto a singular drink all night, but now, he opens his hand—lets loose his grip—and there is a moment where it can dart forward to catch it, but he is still staring down the advisor—political. A demonstration.

The glass drops and shatters to the floor, the wine spills, the advisor’s eyes dart down and then back up, face morphing—

But Lord Technoblade is already turning away. The angel turns away with him, watching his back as he strides slowly, purposefully, out of the gala and into the night.

His soldiers come with him not long after, falling in as they leave the castle. They arrive one by two by four, in singles or in groups. They chatter amongst themselves, but they don’t question their leader, perhaps unwilling to break his thoughtful silence.

It is only when they are back in the General’s tent and the war room that Lieutenant Sneegsnag asks, “Did you get what you wanted?”

“Sort of.” Lord Technoblade cracks his neck. “I’ll tell you all about it. But kid,” he adds, making a half-turn, and it straightens in its place. “You’ve been up all day. Been eventful, too. Why don’t you go to bed?”

“Sir?” it asks, surprise and then that nameless weight putting pressure on its chest. Surely he doesn’t mean—

“You’re gonna stunt your growth,” he says, as though he is not showing it favor, again. He mutters something under his breath, and then: “Full eight hours. Take over my bed, you saw it in the back. Alright?”

A full eight hours.

But he is still waiting for an answer, and at least the “Yes, sir,” is automatic too. It pivots on a heel, glides past the partition that separates Lord Technoblade’s personal quarters from the rest of his tent, and—

He’d mentioned the bed. He’d explicitly told it to _take it over_. But presumably he will sleep tonight also, and maybe if it is good enough—maybe if it is polite—he won’t kick it off to finish its sleep ration somewhere else.

Maybe this is a test. But like food, it cannot afford to waste any opportunity to rest.

It curls up at the foot of the bed, limbs tucked in, wings neatly folded, and despite itself it falls asleep quickly, to the low droning voice of its lord and his people.


	5. an earthquake when I sigh

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CW: dehumanization, objectification, weaponization, touch-starvation

It wakes up all at once.

It stays in bed, frozen in place, breathing still sleep-even, to take a moment and piece together where it is. It is curled on its side, knees hitched up, and it is lying down on something soft—not like the cot it is used to—

It smells different here. Mint and something herbal, earthy. It presses its forehead deeper into the fabric beneath and it’s rough, a little scraggly, and oh, that’s—chrysanthemum. Insect-repelling.

It opens its eyes. Technoblade is handling something near the weapons rack—an axe, a shield—and he is not looking its way, but the morning light is creeping through the cracks in the tent walls, bathing everything in a warm glow.

It tries to roll off the bed but no, there are—blankets, not tucked lightly, not like a binder but it still puts pressure on its wings—focus, focus. It escapes the blanket and rolls off the bed, shakes out its wings once there is solid ground beneath its feet.

He looks up at the noise, of course he does, and he says, voice quiet, surprised, “You’re awake.”

Why hadn’t he woken it up? It has been—lazing about—sleeping in when everyone else has been working—

“Did you sleep okay?” Technoblade slots the axe into a holster at his hip, turns towards it.

“Yes, sir,” it says, and then heart in its throat, “I apologize for oversleeping, sir—”

But he raises his hand—he’s too far away, what, is he going to throw something—

No. He’s waving it off. “You looked like you needed the sleep. And we’re having a slow morning, anyway. Don’t worry about it.”

It doesn’t understand. But Technoblade is already coming over, and it sees a flash of rose gold hair before it wrenches its eyes forward.

“C’mon.” He moves away to the war table—the former war table. There are no maps, no tokens, no sheafs of paper full of reports and logistics and lists. It is empty of war materials now, with only bowls and plates and wooden cups. “Breakfast. Are you hungry?”

Soldiers are supposed to grit their teeth and bear it. But honesty is important. It follows Technoblade automatically to the table, uncertain, confused, and there will be a consequence for either but things will be worse if it lies and he knows.

“Yes,” it says truthfully, and hopes that he will not hold it against it.

And he—doesn’t. He sits it down and breaks the bread in half and plates up a serving to slide over to it, and the bread is steaming softly, and the cheese and fruit have already been sliced into pieces, and when he eats he doesn’t raise his head to look.

“I promised you three meals a day,” he says, when it hesitates. “Did you think I was lyin’?”

“No,” it answers, automatically and fearful, but it’s true. It hadn’t thought he’d been lying, really, just—it would not have been surprised if he had forgotten. The concerns of those sworn to him are not the lord’s burden to bear.

“Then eat.”

It eats. The food is good, fresh and hearty, and—is this food that had been meant for Technoblade? But the cooks yesterday had given them the same meal, and that unsettles something deep—he is a General, it is a privilege and a right of the superior officers to have something better than the soldier’s gruel.

It is not its place to question. It eats, and it chokes down the food, but it is full before a quarter of the plate is gone.

It neatens up its utensils and rests its hands in its lap. Bows its head.

“What’s up?” Technoblade asks, and it can hear his own mug clattering against the table as he sets it down. “You—didn’t finish?”

“I can’t, sir,” it says, and waits for the food to be taken away.

It doesn’t happen. Technoblade shifts in his seat, reaches out, but he just rotates the plate to get a better view. He doesn’t pull it towards him, he doesn’t flip it over, he doesn’t grasp the back of its neck and bend it further over and demand that it try anyway.

“Too full?”

“Yes, sir.” It is not used to eating this much. Yesterday had been—manageable, even with the three meals he had promised, because it had been hungry. Still riding that feeling of being full, it is not terribly hungry now—but it has leftover food, it has not cleaned its plate, it is not being grateful for it—

“That’s alright.” He withdraws his hand but only for a moment, just long enough to bring out—something else—a blue handkerchief that slides into the edge of its peripheral vision. It is folded neatly and there is embroidery along the hems, green stems and white petals. “Pack it up for later, you can snack on it throughout the day.”

It is allowed to _keep_ food for later? That’s—

It hesitates again, and when it does, Technoblade doesn’t get impatient. He just holds his hand in front of it, steady, the unassuming blue linen outstretched in his hand.

Slowly, it reaches out.

* * *

“What’s the plan for today?”

“We’ve got the morning session first with Sophie and the others. After, an inspection of the troops before we head back out.”

“Hmm,” Technoblade says. He puts a hand to his hip, tilts his head in thought. “What’s the agenda for the meeting?”

It sees Lieutenant Sneegsnag glance at it out of the corner of its eye before he replies, “The wrap-up of the war. We’ll be done soon, and then after that we’ll all be able to go home.”

“Home.” Technoblade hums a little, soft and in the throat. “We need to talk about that part, too.”

“About—ah.” Another meaningful look thrown by the Lieutenant, but it is scanning their surroundings and looking for trouble, it is doing its _job_ , there is nothing for him to find fault with it. “Have you asked, yet?”

“Not yet. Maybe later today. But knowing Sophie, she’ll want me to keep him close by, anyway.”

“And of course, you want to, too.”

“Which is why I’m going to bring him into the morning session.”

Lieutenant Sneegsnag shifts on his feet, and its attention snaps over to him, but he is only readjusting his position, not moving to draw a hidden blade. “Are you sure about that? He still seems—out of it.”

Technoblade reaches out, and it braces, but all he does is make a half-turn and put his hand on its shoulder. It freezes beneath the grip but it is gentle, solid, nothing more than a resting of weight.

“Hey, kid,” he says, and it fixes its attention to the chrysanthemum crest embroidered into his cloak over his heart. “How much did you hear of what we were just talkin’ about?”

It is not a public conversation, it is the lord’s shadow, it knows better than to admit to—what is basically _eavesdropping_. “Nothing, sir.”

“See?”

But Technoblade doesn’t acknowledge the Lieutenant. Just says, voice even, still soft, “Nothing?”

Had he wanted to hear something else? It blinks, uncertain.

“I know my manners, sir,” it tries, because that had always appeased the old lord when he’d been in a mood. “I know I’m not supposed to listen until I’m first addressed.”

There is silence. And then the Lieutenant sighs, and he raises a hand to—oh—pinch the bridge of his nose. “We have our work cut out for us, don’t we?”

“Sneeg.” Technoblade’s tone is still dangerously even, but there is—static crackling, now that it is close enough to hear it, and the chrysanthemum crest—blooms, embroidered petals opening up from bud to flower, creeping along the fabric of the cloak as the universe bends its ear to listen. “Accelerate the timeline on the manhunt, would you? I want answers, yesterday.”

“On it,” Lieutenant Sneegsnag replies, automatic, immediate, filled with the same nettle-thorn annoyance and anger as the lord. It does not understand—but that’s fine, it doesn’t need to understand, they will tell it what it needs to know.

And the lord says, “Kid,” and the hand on its shoulder is warm, and the part of the chest piece that it can see beneath his cloak is glittering with barely restrained power, all void-dark hues whose surface is crawling with white-hot static. “If we really wanted to have a secret conversation, we’d take a separate room. If you’re nearby, you can assume that we want you to hear what we have to say. Okay?”

It wants him to eavesdrop. Or, no, maybe he wants it to be ready. Like yesterday, in the ballroom, at the tent. Always watchful.

It can be watchful, and listen, and tell its lord what it had noticed so that he can use that information to further his plans. It can do that. It knows how to do that.

“Yes, sir,” it says, and just barely manages to not chase after his hand when he takes it away.

* * *

The morning session is the civilian lady and her advising council, and the General and the top military officers of their side, and it. The angel of death.

Technoblade sits at the head of the table with Lady Sophie at the other end, and it stands behind his shoulder, hands folded behind its back. The tent is small but warm, the fires are burning bright, and everyone looks—well-rested. Well-fed.

If annoyed, and Lady Sophie is eyeing Technoblade with a smile and saying, “I heard you made a dramatic exit at the ball yesterday.”

“What can I say.” Technoblade leans back in his seat. Like this, he is so close that only a finger’s width separates the back of his head from the angel. It holds its breath and stands as still as it can, but the warmth still radiates and it wants nothing more than to curl up. “It was worth it.”

“Oh, absolutely,” Lady Sophie laughs. “Stars, the number of people who came up to me afterward for reassurance that they hadn’t just pissed off the blood god—it was _hilarious_.”

He huffs, low and soft. “Glad I could help you out. What’s the progress on that, by the way?”

“The post-war concessions?” The lady smiles, and it’s sharp, predatory, something straight off the battlefield even though the angel has never seen her with a weapon in hand. “We’ve got all of them.”

“ _Nice_.”

“Then we move forward with phase two,” someone next to Lady Sophie says, and steeples their fingers.

They start talking about food, and supplies, and governance. It is all things it does not know about, does not _need_ to know about. It watches the people instead of their words.

Some of those gathered around the table are gesturing loudly, excited, animated. Others are more subdued. Almost all of those on the civilian side speak of the end of the war with relief, and—something it doesn’t know how to read. Rest, perhaps. The laying down of arms, the end of a harsh mission, the return home and the warmth in its chest when it is told _Good job_.

The others, the ones by Technoblade’s side, are more straightforward. They want to pack up and leave. All of them have homes to return to.

Everyone has been circling the mention of a return when speaking around it, but it wonders what will happen to it. Lady Sophie had said _we just don’t have the time or the people_ , and Technoblade is the General and a busy man. Will he keep it? Will he pass its contract over?

And then she asks, “Are you going home?” and he replies, “Yeah. Soon as I wrap things up enough, I’m headin’ home.”

“Are the others prepared to take over for you?”

“I’ve been briefed,” a Captain says by Technoblade’s right hand. “We’re good to go.”

He is leaving. Going back to the Empire. The General of their forces are leaving, and—is that safe? But, no, there is a Captain who will remain, and some of the Lieutenants are nodding, and maybe that’s enough. Without the blood god, without the angel of death, maybe the field has been settled enough that they can afford not having overwhelming military superiority.

But where will it go, when they leave? When he leaves?

It loses track of the rest of the conversation, trying to keep its own breathing even. The meeting ends, and people filter out to start the rest of their day, and Technoblade is one of them and it is falling into step with him on instinct.

Maybe this has been a test, and he has been waiting for it to show initiative, and it is failing. Well, no longer.

It keeps pace as they inspect the troops—well-fed and well-prepared men and women, with bright eyes and a lighthearted air—and it stays behind his shoulder as he does—whatever he needs to do. But as soon as he is done and there is a quiet moment where it is just him staring out into the field of tents—it asks.

“Sir. Will you give me a mission?”

“A mission?”

“A mission,” it repeats, and feels some nameless thing grasp at its throat. If it does not have a mission then it is being idle, and idle hands are the first to be killed in war. But they’re not in war. But this is Sir, Technoblade, the blood god, a warrior.

It doesn’t matter.

“I’m ready,” it says. “And I’m yours now. I was the weapon of your enemies, sir, you know what I can do.”

“What?”

That is what he is. A god of war and blood. “Sir is still wrapping up this war. I can carry my weight, sir, you know that. I can do work.”

There is silence. And then he is reaching out a hand—it braces—but no. He is putting his hand on its shoulder, and he is warm, and the touch is firm, but the fingers aren’t digging in. Just—solid. There.

“You don’t need to do that,” Technoblade says, and distantly it can feel some part of its world—shifting.

“But you are a General of the Empire,” it says. “And the General of this army.” _Is_ it an army? There are civilian leaders and there are military leaders but overall, this side doesn’t seem to have a hierarchy. There are lords and there are ladies but there is no _High_ Lord or Lady, not like His Lordship would have been after the war is over.

Just—Lady Sophie, and Lord Technoblade, and their various supporters that it as the Angel of Death had memorized the faces of to kill when possible.

“Well, not exactly a General,” he says, and pauses. It freezes. Has it—caused offense—been rude—but no, he continues: “And that doesn’t matter, anyway. You’re in my care, alright? That’s what the contract means.”

And he is—smart, he has to be, he is the General, a successful warrior, the blood god—but he isn’t _understanding_.

“I will serve you for one year and one day,” it says, “or those of your choosing,” and it is looking at his chin, “obey all orders,” and its voice is raised but it doesn’t know how to stop, “turn away no request,” and it is too late, too late, better to end it—“be obedient to the last.”

It bites its tongue, after, and folds back its wings, and loosens its knees, because to be struck to the floor will calm a lord faster than standing its ground, and it—waits.

“And in return,” Technoblade says, into the silence of the sheep waiting for the wolves, “I will do my best to win a war. That was the contract with _him_ , kid, not with me. But until we change it, it still stands. _Damn it_.”

He turns, and it braces, but he only starts to pace. His hands are in his hair, and the movement reveals the inner lining of his cloak. It stares, entranced by the play of golden light over the delicate filigree stitching, the fine line of runes that have weaved protection into the very threads of the garment.

He comes to a dead stop. “We’ll figure this out,” he says, and the weight of his attention comes down on its shoulders like a physical thing. “Either way, you’re coming back to the Empire with me today. Sneeg is good but the bastard’s gone to ground, and unless you know—”

Technoblade pauses. Why is he pausing? “Unless I know what, sir?” it asks, in the politest way it knows how, because he is its lord and it is his right to know anything and everything related to it.

“No,” he says after a long moment, “no, we’ll figure it out. Don’t worry about it.”

And it will worry, but—he has said it doesn’t need to. Maybe it doesn’t need to.

A runner comes up to them before Technoblade can say anything else, breathing fast but triumphant. “Sneegsnag asked me to come straight to you,” she says, and there is bone-deep satisfaction in her voice. “We’ve tracked one of them down.”

* * *

_One of them_ , it turns out, is the lord’s ally.

She is bedraggled and worn, clothes muddy. There is blood in her hair. There is murder in her eyes.

“You,” she says, as soon as they walk in.

“Me,” Technoblade says, and leans against the wall. It finds a place near his elbow, to the side, has to fold in its wings in order to fit but that’s alright, they are here to—ask questions, or tie up loose ends.

But this is familiar. Its first introduction to Lieutenant Sneegsnag had been in a room like this—not exactly similar, with a single door and no windows and lit by torchlight, cold stone and damp air. But the wooden chair is the same. The ropes and the table of knives and the weighty stares of those who have captured you.

It inhales, and holds it, and keeps itself still by discipline alone.

“She gave us quite the bit of trouble,” someone says from behind her. That’s fair. They are not in a castle, they do not have the advantage of confusing their prisoners of where and when it is; they would need to keep them docile through other means. “But she got sloppy near the river. Must have thought we weren’t looking anymore.”

“What are they paying you with?” the lord’s ally asks, without turning around. “You’re the ruler of an _Empire_ , surely they haven’t offered you the wealth and riches you deserve. Or did they swear fealty? That if you helped them, they’d be loyal to you?”

“Ah,” Technoblade— _Lord_ Technoblade says. “So that’s what you think.”

“What do you mean?” She lunges forward, and the angel steps forward, it is not armed but it still has its hand and its feet and its wings, it would be so easy to knock her over in her chair—she is bound to it—it would do nothing to brace her head and she’d crack it against the floor—but she does nothing but snarl. “We did everything we could. Armor, weaponry, blackmail, assassinations—and yet you came out on top. You won because you stole that idiot’s precious little _angel_ , and he gave up.”

Lord Technoblade’s shoulders shift beneath the cloak. Behind the ally, the soldier with the chrysanthemum crest does not move, does not even twitch.

“And you’re not even keeping it in line properly.” That hateful gaze turns towards it, and she is green-eyed, pupils dilated, blood streaking across her forehead, and she is about to—oh.

“Think about it,” she whispers, and she is the only one speaking. It closes its eyes. It does not want to hear this—but it cannot leave, it cannot give her that satisfaction. “How do you think we could keep an angel of death like _that_ in line? The same way you keep a tamed wolf, of course. Good discipline, reward and punishment. You’re slipping, _blood god_. You’re too lenient. It’s going to bite the hand that feeds, and then where will you be?”

She is—planting seeds, spouting lies, it is oathsworn and bound it could never—but the lord is making a noise in the back of his throat and she is speaking again, and it flinches backwards and the lord steadies it, and his hand is between its shoulder-blades and he has just been told all the ways in which it is loyal but maybe, she has explained, she has _told him_ so maybe—

It shifts, just enough to bring its wings beneath his hand, and he stills. But he doesn’t move away.

“See?” Laughter. “Pet him, blood god, and see what I mean. Or better yet, since I see you’re reluctant—little angel, show him how you ask nicely.”

It has not needed to do this—but of course this is the same. The new lord has graced it with three meals a day and eight hours of sleep a night and the favor of keeping it by his side, this is the literal least it can do—

It turns, just enough so that it can face him, stretches its wings so that he does not have to move his hand, and sinks down to its knees. It leans forward. It presses its forehead into the side of his thigh, and the scales of the armor are cool against its fevered skin.

“Fuck,” someone is saying, but it is not the lord, it doesn’t need to pay attention—

“What the fuck did you do—”

“Only what it was trained to do! Do you see what you’ve stolen from us, now? It’s good for nothing else! It’s a creature of war, a falcon to be tamed to hand!”

“He’s a _kid_!”

“That thing is not _human_ ,” the prisoner is saying, but the lord’s hand finally moves where it rests on its wings, smooths out the top feathers. And this is the first—no, second—time today he’s touched it, and he is warm, and he is gentle, and it feels so good it keens in the back of its throat.

The arguing on the other side of the room dies down. Its lord pauses, but it flexes its wings harder into the palm of his hand and, thank the stars, everything that is holy, he shows it the favor of continuing the petting.

“I told you,” someone is saying, and they are triumphant. “A falcon, to hand. So what will you do now with your war prize, Emperor?”

“I think,” its lord says, “that you need to shut up,” and the angel of death tenses on its knees. Will he command it? It has no knife nor axe nor blade, but it has its hands and with the way the prisoner is bound they would be so easy to strangle. The flailing would even be contained.

But no, his hand is traveling from wing to shoulder to back, and he is bending down and murmuring, “Hey, I need you to get up now, okay? I bet the ground doesn’t feel too good on your knees—” and he is right but this is nothing, stone is worse, even through rugs—

He applies upward pressure. It takes the hint and stands up. He sweeps his thumb across its back, and something that had been coiled tense within it sighs and loosens and falls away, and in the middle of that high it almost doesn’t notice him dropping his hand and moving away.

The lord takes one step, then two, his slow footfalls ringing like a knell. And then he says, “I was hoping it was just that bastard who fell into that bad habit. But it looks like all of you have it. That is a kid, and _he_ is a _person_ , understand?”

It should not—hope, that painful thing—but it must, it must.

It inhales, and holds its breath, and commits to the dive. It turns around.

The lord is holding his axe to the prisoner’s throat. He is dead calm in the throes of his anger. The surface of the weapon is—rippling, like the sea disturbed by wind, errant waves crashing against the shore, and there is surface lightning crawling all over the killing edge, hissing, upset and angry—

Something hums. The angel tilts back its head, but this is a tent pitched at the edges of the camp, far enough that no one will come running if someone screams. There is grass underfoot and the sun is turning the canvas walls a warm cream and there are shadows, now, writhing by the lord’s feet.

It blinks, and the shadows blink back, pinpricks of light in reds and ice-blues that swirl in the dark like ink in water. It’s those stars that are humming, a soft noise that rises as they brighten, the sea of the void coming back in at high tide.

“You’re going to get bitten,” the prisoner says, and wheezes out a laugh. “You’ll see, you bastard.”

“Yeah, I’ll see,” he says, and then pulls back the axe—turns his wrist—taps the butt of its handle into the prisoner’s head hard enough to knock her out.

She slumps over. The lord lifts his head, his hair rising from the static, his voice ringing with distant chimes the angel has only ever heard in one place—“Tidy her up and get her out of here. Let Sophie decide what to do.”

“Yessir,” the soldier says, and steps forward.

The lord turns back towards the exit—back towards the angel where it stands. The shadows are nipping at his heels but they are a pack of obedient hounds, the stars wink out and the dark dies down as he walks over. He is holstering his axe again, and it doesn’t understand why he hadn’t used his sword, that’s the one known battlefields over—

“You okay, kid?” he asks, and pauses, and he must see something on its face because he lifts his arm and raises his cloak like a wing until he’s pulled the angel under it. It is pressed close. The warmth radiates even through the armor. “C’mon. Let’s take a breather.”

And he is offering, he wants it to, he steadies a hand between its shoulder-blades again and takes it with him as he exits the tent, and he’s warm, and it’s warm, and it feels so good it keens again. The second time, it manages to strangle the sound before the lord becomes angry.

“Hey,” he says, and it is soft, almost as soft as the warm hand rubbing circles into its back. “Hey, you alright?”

He has said _you’re coming with me_ and he has—threatened a captive prisoner over—how it should be addressed—

It ducks its head, presses its forehead into his armors, and they are cold, unnaturally chill, and the magic hisses in its ears but the thorns are avoidable. It is—being needy, or vulnerable, or just plain too soft, it should be better than this, it—

But then the hand flattens and strokes slowly upward, and he lays his other hand on its back, and he wraps his arms around it, and he bends down so that he is resting his chin on the back of its head, and he is saying, “Breathe, okay, kid, it’s okay—”

It breathes, and it is surrounded by solid warmth and magic that tastes like iron and lightning, and the inner lining of the cloak is soft on its wings.

“You’re alright, everything’s alright—you won’t have to see her anymore, ‘m sorry I brought you in—”

It breathes, and a high-pitched whine escapes it in its next breath.

“Shh, shh, it’s okay. Everything’s okay. You’re okay.”

* * *

“We’re going to have to look for him off-world,” Technoblade says grimly, some unknowable amount of time later. “He won’t tell me his name, or can’t tell me, same difference. And none of the other— _people_ —” he spits the word, “—know of him as anything other than ‘angel.’ So.”

“Bembo?”

“Bembo, and Plancke, and maybe even Grian and Scar and the other Hermits, if I can track them down. The Interdimensional Court of Mojang if that fails, or they don’t have time.”

“Dude,” and here he laughs. “Of course they’ll make time for you.”

“I dunno, Sneeg, they were pretty busy last I checked—”

“Techno.” Lieutenant—former Lieutenant—Sneegsnag puts his hand on Technoblade’s shoulder. There is a look on both their faces, and it is one it recognizes, and in response it ducks under the lord’s cloak again, where it is dark and warm and full of magic softly humming a lullaby.

There is a pause, but soon after, the lord’s companion sighs again and says: “Techno. They will. Trust me.”

The lord is rubbing circles into its shoulder, and his arm is strong and braced behind its back, and it is filled with—tension, a vibration, from the tip of its wings to the ten toes of its feet, because he is warm and he has not let go yet, because the contact has left it buzzing with—energy, light, something.

“I am.”

“Alright.” Another pause. A low considering hum. “Then I’ll stay here with the others and squeeze ‘em for info for as long as I can. I’ll see you back at the Empire?”

“Yeah.”

“With him in tow?”

“Yeah. I’ll have to text everybody, send out Sky or Memph if they don’t respond.”

“Memph I can see, but Sky?” Sneegsnag laughs, and it’s only somewhat kind. “Wow, you’re feeling mean today, aren’t you?”

“If Sky goes after their kneecaps, then that’s on them.”

“At least it’s not Bealio you’re sending out.”

“My first choice would have been you,” Technoblade says to the Lieutenant who the angel suspects has been his right hand man this entire campaign, “but you’re here, doin’ other important things, so.”

“Ah.” Sneegsnag coughs. Clears his throat. “Well then. I’ll try and finish it as soon as I can, so I can come home faster. Make sure to not give the others any white hairs while I’m gone, alright?”

“I’m not the one Calvin yells at about safety procedures.”

“But you’re the one we’re all standing with,” Sneegsnag returns, and Technoblade makes a humming noise and the weapons sing back, and beneath the cloak of his power, the warm weight on its wings and the soft touch on its shoulders, it drifts.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sky, Memph, and Bealio are references to moderators from Technoblade's and Philza's stream chats.


	6. a revelation starts to form

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> CW: dehumanization, objectification, touch-starvation, (non graphic) sickness, (mentioned) canon-typical violence

“Here’s Carl,” Technoblade says. “He’s the one that’ll get us home.”

Carl is the horse that they’d met once, yesterday, briefly. It had known the horse is tall, then, but it’s one thing to see it from behind Technoblade’s shoulder and watch him pat it fondly on the neck, one of the only horses here to be as tall as the blood god is, and another to have its lord put a hand on its back—between the shoulder blades, and he is gentle again—

And push it forward.

“Here,” he says, while it freezes in place in uncertainty and doubt. He raises a hand to cup one of the angel’s, and oh, it’s one thing to feel him on the feather and another to have his callouses press into the back of its hands as he cradles it. It’s lost in the warmth, the jolt that fluffs up its feathers, just a little, and while it is—momentarily distracted—he raises its hand in front of the horse’s nose.

Carl doesn’t hesitate to push forward, and he is—warm, and a little scratchy. He breathes and it’s a sudden rush of warm air that startles it, and its fingers curl despite itself but Technoblade is there and he doesn’t let it run.

“He’s just saying hi,” he murmurs, and this close—both of his hands on it, a sturdy presence behind its back—it shivers. “That’s how horses do it, see?”

There’s a rustle. Carl slants his eyes down, and he is—so tall, so large, it has never seen one of the war horses this close except in battle—and it knows that the horse can kick its head off, or bare those teeth and bite, or rear up and strike it straight across a battlefield.

But Carl does none of those things. He stays still as Technoblade guides their hands from his snout to his neck, and then he shifts and it is a living thing beneath its fingers, all muscle that flexes as the horse turns its head to look over.

Technoblade takes the opening to move his hand from the angel’s back into his pocket. “Here, gimme your hand.”

It reaches out, and he puts something into its other hand, the one not pressed to Carl’s neck. It’s firm beneath its fingers, a little craggly, still slightly warm from his pocket.

Carl’s ears prick up.

“Not yet,” he tells the horse, but it’s fond. There is pressure in the angel’s chest again. “Hey, kiddo, alright—have you ever fed a horse before?”

It has not been allowed the horses this war—and before, before—it has only ever had—

It wrenches its thought away. They can take care of themselves. It needs to focus. “No, sir.”

“Well, he’s going to lip it up out of your hand, and I know it’ll feel, mm, weird. Don’t move though, alright? Can’t let him know it bothers you, or he’s gonna keep doing it ‘cause he’s a mischievous little _brat_.”

Still, the hand with which he guides the angel’s hand with the horse’s treat is gentle. And he is right, Carl’s lips feel odd against its palm when he takes the carrot, but it is warm, not weird at all.

“Yeah,” Technoblade says, from somewhere behind and above its head. There is something in his voice it doesn’t know how to read. “Carl’ll take care of you.”

Carl snorts. He raises his head, and he is tall, and he is staring over its head at the lord.

“Oh shush,” he tells him, and there is laughter in the undertow of his voice. “Do I need to go get Floof?”

Floof?

Carl tosses his back his head, and the movement jostles their hands from his neck, and he is being—unruly, undisciplined, he is going to be punished—

Technoblade laughs, low and deep within his chest, and it startles but it doesn’t break from beneath his hand—

“I’m going to get Floof,” the lord says—threatens—but there is too much amusement in his voice. “And then you’re gonna be sorry.”

Is Floof a—a weapon, or another horse, or a person—it doesn’t understand—

But then the lord drops the hand cradling its own, and it has a moment of—reaching out, please, no, don’t—

And then he’s raising his hand and putting it to his lips and turning his head and _whistling_ , a sharp and high note that cuts through the bustle of half this military camp preparing to leave—

“There he is.”

With the way that they’re standing it can’t see clearly, but it can hear the rush of wind and the excited shouting amongst the soldiers as it passes them by, and—what if it’s a danger, what if—

It turns and tries to tug the lord away, but he stands firm, unmovable, even through its attempts to move them to safety, even when something white barrels close in its peripheral vision, too fast it’s going too fast it is going to hurt the lord—

And then it stops, and then it sits, and the lord is saying, “Floof, there you are. Go ahead and play with Carl, would you?”

The heavy white thing leaps to its feet and then Carl is moving back, prancing away, he is not tied to a post he can actually leave his hooves are flashing but—

No. The white wolf, because it is a wolf, it can see that now, is tall enough that its head reaches the lord’s hip and it is nudging the horse in the side, tongue lolling out, eyes bright, tail wagging, and the horse is doing—nothing. Just snorting, and eyeing it balefully, and flicking his own tail like he is being bothered by a child.

“Hey, hey,” the lord is saying, but it’s not to the animals, he’s turned towards it again, and his chin is dipped and his hair swings over his shoulder and tickles the angel’s cheek. “Hey, you alright? Sorry, should’ve introduced you to Floof properly like I did Carl, huh.”

Floof is a wolf. Floof is a wolf big enough to kill. It is wearing armor, the same way Carl has armor, and even without its jaw unhinged its teeth are big enough to crack skulls open.

The lord has his hand on its back again, and it ducks beneath his cloak, and he lets it, and doesn’t make it leave that safety and come out and do—whatever it is Carl and Floof are doing. He doesn’t make it watch him watch them with something it wants for itself, selfishly, but it has not earned it, it needs to—

“Are you tired?” The lord passes his hand from back to shoulder to back of the neck, and it feels good, and it wilts in place, presses its forehead into his armors again. “You’re runnin’ pretty warm.”

“I’m fine, sir,” it says, because it knows what happens when soldiers are sick. Better to not be sick at all.

“Hmm.” Technoblade rubs a thumb, slowly, hypnotically. “Alright. But let me know if you need a break, alright? I can get us home just fine.”

Home, he tells it, nonchalant, light, and it— _wants_ —

It cranes up, presses into the touch, tries to ask him nicely, and he doesn’t move away. He doesn’t let go of it again.

* * *

_Get home_ , it turns out, means a trip with more than a little magic in it.

The soldiers pack up camp and prepare to leave, but they don’t carry any supplies for a long overland trip, they tuck away their weapons and pull on clothing that is too warm for today’s weather, they chatter at each other in excitement about being back in their own beds in time for dinner.

It doesn’t understand. Are they going off-world? But they can’t bring anything through the void of the universe, and the kind of enchantment that works off-server and off-world is expensive, specialized, kept a secret, and they can only bring their own weapons if there is enough of a connection, enough heart, enough blood—

“All ready?” Technoblade rumbles. He’s letting it hide beneath his cloak again, and the lullaby is back, and it’s soothing. It almost nods off before it can get a hold of itself. “Everythin’ we took back from the castle yesterday, that’s with Carl. It’s in the saddlebags. You wanna go check?”

It doesn’t understand. It stays under the cloak instead, and hopes that’s the right answer, or at least is one of them, it doesn’t know what it will do if he—

“Well,” he says, when the silence has settled. “Sophie and Sneeg are stayin’ here for the next little while, so we can always ask ‘em if you find out you’re missin’ anythin’ later. So don’t worry about that.”

It blinks, and breathes, and tries to stay awake. But the dark is nice and his armor is chill and the music is soft, and it’s hard.

It drifts for a little while longer.

Eventually, he stops rubbing circles into its shoulder. “Hey, kiddo, I need you awake for a sec.”

It—can’t slip out from beneath his grip, but it can raise its head, look at his chin, show him that it is paying attention.

“Just get up on Carl, alright?” He drops his hand and drops his arm and _steps away_. “Can you do that for me?”

It turns on a heel. Stares the war horse in the eye. He is tall, and the stirrups are right there, and it—has ridden horses before, it knows how to do this, it knows—

It flares its wings and that hurts, but the pain shocks it back into its body, it is tethered instead of drifting and everything hurts but it has a job to do.

It slips a foot in the stirrup, puts both hands on the saddle, hauls itself up. Tries to haul itself up. The war horse is tall and it is still dizzy and it flaps its wings, tries to get the leverage, but the center of gravity is off and it is going to fall—

A hand comes to rest on its back. “Easy there,” the lord says, and steadies it, and keeps his hand there until it can haul itself the rest of the way into the saddle. “There you go. Stars. Okay. Next time, Carl, you’re gonna hafta kneel.”

The war horse snorts; the world rocks beneath the angel. It holds onto the saddle for dear life.

“Don’t gimme that look, I’m the one who feeds you still. Alright. Now my turn. Scooch up a lil, kid—there you go. Okay. Don’t be startled, alright, I’m just gonna come up behind you—”

The lord is more graceful. He puts his foot in the stirrup, and it blinks, and then he is settling down behind it. It has nowhere to put its wings, he is going to have to lean forward to take the reins, and it is going to be—restricted, again, but there is nothing for it—

He does not reach over to take the reins. He clicks his tongue, and the war horse swivels its ears, and he presses a knee to its side, and the horse starts walking forward.

“There we go,” the lord says, as though he has done nothing remarkable. “Shouldn’t have to put up with this for too long, anyway—just a short trip through the Nether, and then home.”

Through the _Nether_? How are they going to get the entire army home—and anyway, the Nether is a lawless place, they are going to get—

But then he says “You can take a nap, if you want,” and the war horse’s gait is as smooth as a boat on ice, and he—takes off his cloak, and drapes it over like a blanket, and it is warm, and when it presses its face into the fabric it smells like peppermint and chrysanthemum.

 _You can take a nap, if you want_.

It sleeps.

* * *

When it wakes up, the air itself is cold.

“One successful trip and only a lil bit of cheatin’ later,” the lord sighs from behind it, “and we’re home. Glory be.”

It blinks rapidly, trying to clear the sleep from its eyes. The world is still moving, butter-smooth, a glide through kind thermals, but it is cold and it burrows further into the blanket—the cloak.

The lord’s cloak.

“Keep it on,” he tells it, when he notices it reaching for it. “You’re not dressed for the climate here yet.”

It looks up, and has to look away almost immediately. They’re surrounded by ice and snow. The only thing that is not white in this landscape is the large stone castle built into the mountain, larger than the one it had served in for the last handful of months.

“Or the stronghold, really,” he adds. “Gotta get Jabber on that.”

He clicks his tongue and shifts his knee and the war horse moves forward again. There is a wolf prancing in the snow, roaming forward and turning around and waiting, ears pricked up, tongue lolling. Floof.

“Oh stop that.” He is so audibly fond. It is beneath his cloak but jealously still flares between its ribs. “We’re makin’ our way over, you ridiculous dog.”

The wolf _woofs_ , low and quiet, and there is the rattle of the soldiers behind them and someone shouts from the stronghold ramparts and a flag is rattling up one of the spires now, flapping in the cold wind.

The stronghold gates creak open even before they reach them. People stream out as soon as they do, and some of them have weapons and all of them are wearing armor but they are all smiling, laughing, shouting.

“Home sweet home.” There is a sigh behind its head. “Okay, they’re prolly gonna be ridiculous about this but stay close to me, alright? And keep the cloak on.” He brings up a hand and passes it over the fabric, and it—shrinks, beneath his hand, but it stays large enough to cover its knees and its wings.

“Technoblade!” someone hails, before it can respond. It’s a dark-skinned soldier who’s marching up, but—no, his armor is more ornate, there is filigree around the edges, and he carries himself like the Captain had carried herself. Someone with weight. “You’re back earlier than we’d thought.”

“I cheated,” the lord answers, like that makes any sense. “Didn’t feel like riskin’ a lot through the Nether today, y’know.”

“You—oh my gods.” They swat at his knee, even though they need to reach up to do it, but it’s light on the armor and it rings as metal connects. The lord doesn’t retaliate. “You know you’re not supposed to do it so lightly, oh my _gods_.”

“And I’m tellin’ you,” he says, ever-patient and more than a little amused, “you’re makin’ too big a deal outta it. I’m not gonna keel over from bendin’ the rules a little, Calvin.”

Calvin huffs. But he sighs and concedes the point. Instead, his eyes slide over to—it. “And who’s this?”

“The kid I told you about.”

“You told me he was young, but I didn’t—oh, stars.” Calvin blinks. Is it supposed to look away? He is a superior, obviously, his interactions with the lord are proof enough of that, but—is he like Sneegsnag? Is he greater? “He’s so _tiny_. How old is he?”

“I dunno,” the lord says, but his voice has hardened now. “Questions for later, Calvin, or are you gonna have us stand in the cold?”

“It’s your castle, my guy.” Calvin snorts and shakes his head. He finally looks away. “Come on then, Your Eminence the _Emperor_ , would you like to inspect the troops first or hold court?”

“Oh shove off.” The harshness melts off the lord’s voice like it hadn’t been there at all. “And get outta the way, you think Carl is gonna care if he runs you over?”

“I’ve fed this horse with my own two hands,” Calvin snorts, and brings up his knuckles to let the war horse sniff it. “I’d like to think he has more affection for me than that.”

“So you _are_ the one who’s been feedin’ him sugar cubes when I haven’t been lookin’.”

“I never said that!”

Somehow, somewhere between the banter and the shouting and the people filtering out and the stable hands coming over to take the horses into the stable, they reach the inside of the stronghold. It tries to take in everything that it can, but there are—many rooms, many doors, and oh, they are going _into_ the mountain now. Is the entire stronghold set into the earth, then, instead of merely resting on it?

“Alright,” the lord says. “Carl, can you kneel—yeah, thanks.”

The world shifts again as the horse kneels, and the movement sets off—something in its chest, unsteadiness, nausea, bile rising in its throat—

Solid ground. It swallows and tries to keep it down.

They dismount and then the war horse rises to its feet, tall and intimidating again, but he is all willing lines when a young girl comes up to it and takes its reins. Its ears are perked up as they leave towards the stable.

“Not too many sugar cubes, alright?” the lord calls out to her, and the stable hand giggles as she leaves.

* * *

The rest—blurs.

It follows the lord somewhere, his faithful shadow, his cloak around its shoulders. It is warm on its wings and the hem reaches to its ankles, now, somehow smaller than it had been before to accommodate the lord. Its ears are ringing, and maybe it’s the cold but maybe it’s the cloak. It bites its tongue and says nothing.

They are cold and warm in turns as they make their way through the stronghold, but never warm enough. They make many lefts and rights throughout the hallways, and it is confused within the first five, but—does it need to learn? Will it need to learn? Possibly yes, so that it is useful, so that it can—

They reach a room. It smells like bread, and roast beef and cheese and fruit and baking sweets and all good things and its stomach growls, without it intending to.

“Mm?” The lord turns around. He is still in his armors and presumably he has used—whatever it is today that had made Calvin so concerned for him, but look at him, he is still hale and hearty, and what a disappointment is it, that it cannot be attending the lord, that the lord has more energy than the weapon in his hand—

“You okay, kid?”

He puts his hand on its shoulder, and then its forehead. It is warm, and steady, and it leans in, and he braces, and he doesn’t move. He doesn’t let it fall.

It makes the mistake of taking its weight off its own feet.

The world tilts. And then—silence.

* * *

“His first day here,” someone says, “and he’s sick. Poor kid.”

“I really don’t know what happened, he was—just fine, when we left—”

“He might have caught something before you met him. Or, wait, you said he just—went boneless, yeah?”

“Yeah.”

“Might be stress. Finally coming down from that high.”

“This early?” A hand comes down and passes through its hair, and it feels so good.

“You never know, it might have been brewing for a while.”

“Mm.” Fingers sweep through its hair, and it holds its breath, but they’re—just running through, untangling, neatening. Petting.

Silence. And then: “I’ll go and make more of that splash painkiller, shall I?”

“That—yeah. Thanks. That’d be great.”

* * *

In the middle of the haze, it starts keening.

It tries not to. But it still hurts, and it is dizzy, and pressing its head into the fabric—the cot—underneath doesn’t help, and whenever it tries to uncurl to go find water the room spins, and its shoulders are _aching_ and everything hurts, and—

“I’m sorry,” its lord is saying, when the fog lifts a little. “I’m sorry, we already gave you the maximum dosage—anymore and it’ll be dangerous.”

Maximum dosage—they had—doused it in potions, oh, stars—

But that is the lord, and he has the right, it does not need to know, he does not need anything like _consent_ , he knows, he owns, he is the lord.

“I’m sorry,” the lord says again, and that doesn’t make any sense. “Does it still hurt?”

What a weird question to ask. It screws its eyes tight until white stars burst across its vision, tries to breathe in deeply past the nausea sitting like a stone in its lungs. “Yes,” it answers, because he deserves the truth and it would be so easy to tell if it is lying and it wants to stall as long as possible before he needs to punish it. Maybe if it is good—he won’t hold it against it.

But “I can still work,” because that’s important too, “Milord, I can still, just give me the order—”

“Shh,” the lord says, and it shuts up. Breathes in slowly. His fingers stop carding through its hair, and that sends its heart racing, but no, he’s not angry, all he does is rest his hand on the back of its head. “I told you, it’s fine.”

He repeats it with the easy mantra of something said multiple times. It still doesn’t understand.

“Milord.” It needs him to know, to _understand_ —“I can still work, sir, please—”

He is saying something. It should listen, it needs to, but it can’t, the words are muffled and it is underwater again, running out of air, running out of time, it—

A thumb sweeps across the back of its head. It opens its eyes.

White stars stare back, and there is a crown on the lord’s head and shadows lingering over his shoulder and stars glittering in the air around them like suspended dust caught in sunlight.

“Shh,” the blood god says. “It’s okay. We’ll talk about work later, alright? Right now you’re goin’ to rest, and that’s it. Nothing more than that.”

A direct order. It closes its eyes.

* * *

Bile rises in its throat, and that’s new, it’s prepared to endure the potion resistance training, not—

Unprepared, caught off-guard, the bile escapes. It throws up. The sick spatters on—stone, and fabric, and oh, gods, this is not its room—this is not its bed—

“I’m sorry,” it manages to choke out. It is. It cowers without meaning to, makes itself small, draws in its wings and that _hurts_ but it needs to—it needs to—

“It’s okay,” the lord says, but he is standing.

“I’m _sorry_.” Maybe if it repeats itself enough times—shows him that it’s genuine about this—he’ll let it go.

Oh, there is no chance, but it needs to at least _try_. “I’m sorry, milord, I’ll—clean it up—”

It pushes itself up onto its elbow—when had it been lying down? In the lord’s _presence_ , get it together angel, you need to do better than this, he deserves respect what are you doing—

“Don’t,” he orders, and it freezes in place. It’s an awkward position and he will say _my dear angel of death, where is your dignity? you might have fallen but that is no reason to be_ —

“Shh,” he adds, and that’s new. “Don’t worry about it. It’s not your fault.”

But it’s so clearly its fault. It had _thrown up_ , no one else had done that, no one else had forced it to, by its own volition—it had been _weak_ —

The lord moves back. He slips his hand beneath its shoulders, and another beneath its knees, and he— _picks it up_ —

The world is moving. It squeezes its eyes shut, clenches its jaw, does everything it can to keep the bile down. It has already been disgraceful, if it _throws up_ on the lord it—he will—

“On it.” That’s someone else in the room. Look how far the angel has fallen, it hadn’t even noticed. “Everything?”

“Everythin’,” the lord answers, and he brings it close to his chest, and it curls up and presses its ear to his heart. There is no armor. It can hear it clearly, slow, steady. Not angry then, even though he should be. “Jabber, he’s burnin’ up. The medicine ain’t workin’.”

“The sheets are soaked through, too—and is that—stars, what is that. Dust? Grit?”

“Not surprised. Sorry about the mess.”

“I volunteered,” and that’s amusement, whoever _Jabber_ is. “Plus, he’s a cute kid, even sick. Who’s making his painkillers?”

“Memph, but it’s Scar’s recipe. Do you think—”

It tucks in its chin, and breathes through its nose, and focuses all of its attention on _not throwing up_.

* * *

Somewhere between one rocking of its world and the next it’s set down on its side. Whatever is beneath is—soft, and scratchy in places, and but thankfully, blessedly, horizontal.

Or mostly horizontal. It wants to lie down but an arm is keeping it upright, tilted at an angle, and even though it knows it is lying on something flat it feels like the world is still moving—

Something presses against its mouth. It opens, and it’s—cold, liquid, goes down easy. Water.

“Are you _sure_ we can’t—”

“You know as well as I do, Techno, how taking care of sickness works—”

It drinks, and it drinks, and it drinks, but it is not enough. The cup is drawn away and it chases after the hand, keening, desperate—

“Shh. Sorry, kid, but let that settle first and then we can give you more, alright?”

It whines. Is that what they want? It can ask nicely, it can—it tries to mantle its wings, pull in its knees, but its wings are too heavy and its limbs feel too far away—

“Hey, hey, it’s okay. What is it? Are you uncomfortable? Jabber, can we get more—”

More words. It doesn’t understand. It cannot ask, but there is still an arm keeping it up, and there is still the promise of more water, and maybe it shouldn’t hope but maybe, this time, maybe—

“Please,” it whispers, and it comes out parched, croaking, inelegant, disgraceful, and it winces and flinches and almost takes it back—

“What do you need?” the voice asks. Oh, oh.

“Please, more water—”

“Do you think you’re gonna throw up again, kid?”

It can’t help it—it cringes back. Oh, this is a bad idea. Oh, why did it have to be selfish, why couldn’t it just _accept what it has_ and be grateful, why does it have to ask for things it knows it cannot—

“Hey, hey, it’s okay,” the voice says, and it blinks, and tilts its head, and tries to focus—but it’s just a smear of color. There is shape and form but it doesn’t recognize it, the knowledge is just out of reach and the fog is already settled in, it doesn’t know. It’s so difficult to focus. “You’ll get more water in a minute, alright? Count with me.”

A minute. Sixty seconds. They like playing games, they like—testing it for discipline—but maybe if it behaves, maybe if it is good, this time, they’ll—

It counts. Ten. Twenty. Thirty.

On the forty-seventh second mark, they bring the cup back and let it take another sip.

* * *

“Hey kid,” the lord is saying, some unknown time later, and his voice sounds so very far away but he is asking after it, and it needs to pay attention—“Kid, I’m sorry, I know you’re tired. But I need you to answer a few questions, alright?”

“Yes, milord,” it manages to get out, and it’s not even mangled. Just a little light-headed, just a little wheezing.

Silence. Shuffling. And then the lord is passing a hand over its head again, firm, gentle, and it feels so good. It leans in. He doesn’t move away.

“Kid, are you allergic to anything?”

“No, milord.”

“Do you know what potions we can safely give you?”

What? Potions, for—oh.

“It won’t work,” it whispers, and hopes that it’s audible. “They—I built up a resistance.”

“You _built up_ —how many times did you almost die in that hardcore world, huh?”

“It was recent,” it says, because it is in pain and this is the lord and he deserves to know. “I’ll still have the resistance. It’s a waste, milord, I don’t need it.” It is already hurting, they must have used the harming—and its bones are heavy, that must be—slowness, maybe—

“You don’t—” He cuts himself off. His hand has stilled.

It whines, because the touch feels good, because it’s something to focus on other than the throbbing ache of its head and the low-burning fire of the line down its spine, the way it is lying awkwardly on a wing but it is tired, so tired, it cannot move.

Slowly, he starts stroking its hair again.

* * *

“It still hurts,” it whispers, because the trainer had liked verbal confirmation that the training is working.

“I’m sorry,” someone says, and that doesn’t make any sense. “That’s all I’ve got, anything else is gonna have to be—an intervention.”

“It still hurts,” it tries again. The lanterns are too bright and the mattress underneath is too soft and it is lying on its side and its wings are haphazard, it has to be better than that, prettier than that, but folding them in at this angle _hurts_ and it can’t—

“Shh,” and that’s the lord, and it shuts up. “Stop tryin’ to get up, alright?”

It sinks back down into—the fabric, blankets, furs. One of them is red and glittering and it’s—vibrating, leaving stardust that sticks to its fingertips, humming a song that it thinks it should remember. It runs its fingers over it a few times trying to understand, but the sensation—slips away—buried beneath the white snow of the fog and the pain and it’s easier to just—drift.

“Are you _sure_.” The lord’s voice floats above its head, foggy and somewhere far away, but he’s not—addressing it, it doesn’t need to listen. “The regular healin’ potions aren’t takin’ as it is, and you know I’m not technically—”

* * *

Everything hurts. It’s a different sort of pain than the usual. Everything _aches_ , in a whole-body way, from every feather on its wings to every muscle in its body.

And it is too warm. It pries off the covers in a panic, because it is roasting beneath, it is going to be cooked alive, and maybe that’s what it deserves for threatening to do the same—even if under orders, it had, it had, and that on top of every beating heart it’d pulled out of a cracked-open rib cage and every thrashing body it had held still beneath the water—

There is a place beyond the pain, it had heard once from the Captain. It wonders if it can reach it. Maybe it is too late for no pain at all, but maybe—if the stars are good—

It is too cold now, and it curls up, and it hurts and it’s hard to move its own limbs—slowness, for sure—but if it freezes to death then it will ruin the training—

* * *

“I can try something,” its lord says at some point when it is vaguely coherent again, and his hand leaves its hair, and he stands and moves away, and he is—going to get the trainer, or the Captain, his time is better spent than this, he has more valuable things to do—

Shadows creep through the room. Its vision is already filled with black dots, but light floods in and there is a fog settling in and there are stars lazily spinning in the midst of it.

“I’m not good at this,” he murmurs, “not in the same way I can do—well. This ain’t soul-stuff, just body-stuff, so it’ll be overkill. Eh. It’ll be fine.”

The hounds are back again. They drift through the room, crawl up the walls, hover over his shoulder, and their eyes are the stars at night, scattered gems, blue and purple and indigo and the thousand other colors that are so hard to catch, and as one they open their jaws to show the nebulae that make up their throats.

The lord reaches out and dips his hand into the void, goes wrist-deep into the singing static of the space between stars. He pulls something out, slowly, lovingly, and what emerges is a flower made of light. No leaves or stems, just the multi-petaled bloom. It should recognize that, it has _seen_ a flower like that before, and it can’t, the word slips away from it, and it doesn’t—

He cradles the flower in his hands. “Overkill,” he says again, and it doesn’t understand, but he’s stepping forward, and he’s placing a hand on its forehead again, and he is so blessedly cold, it gasps and wheezes and curls in, trying to tell him, _show_ him—

“Shh,” he murmurs, and it shushes, and “Don’t curl up like that, you’re gonna run outta air,” and it uncurls, and then he places the flower on the pillow above its head.

Something in its chest—eases. The pain at the junction where its wings meet its back—and there had been pain, it realizes with a startle—disappears. It still aches, but it is—less. It doesn’t need to drift as much.

“That’ll keep you safe,” he says, like that’s important. “And might help with everythin’ else, honestly. Now onto the hard part—”

Hands now empty, he fills them again—one of the stars hovering over his shoulder swivels, flares bright, and liquid light pours in a stream from the star into his hand. It ignites as it reaches his palm, the same rainbow fire it had seen before, flickering the same colors as the stars.

“I’m sorry,” he says, and he shouldn’t, he is the lord, he should never be sorry—“Hey, get over here, can you—”

There’s a woofing noise. Some of the shadows scramble up the bed and they’re not fluid at all, that’s odd, they had been so liquid-like yesterday—

One of them settles lengthwise by its side, stretched out, puts its head in its lap, and another curls around its head and the flower like a crescent moon, and a third still brackets it on the other side, and a small one with eyes like sapphires curls up on its feet—

“Don’t crush him,” the lord tells them, but he’s doing something with the golden ichor in his hand now, pouring it into a cup.

It reaches out. The one by its side comes up beneath its hand, and it is cool, and it curls itself around its hand in a manner that would break the bones of any mortal wolf but _now_ it is liquid, and it is a solid chill that feels so very good on its fevered skin.

When the lord comes back it is pressed against the hounds, wings up and outstretched and flailing and _undignified_ but it feels so good, it can’t make itself neaten up to please the lord.

But he says “Oh, good job,” and something eases the vice around its lungs, and when he coaxes it to sit up his hand is gentle. He presses a cup between its hands. “Can you drink this?”

It does before he has finished asking. It’s milk, warm, soothing, but there’s something else. Not bitter, not acidic, not a potion that it’s been trained with. New training regime then.

It takes one gulp, then two, then—

“Slow down,” he says, and it’s milk, it would counteract whatever potion had been put in it, it doesn’t understand—but it doesn’t need to understand.

It sips instead. The warmth settles into its stomach and sinks through to its bones. Whatever is in the cup, whatever the golden light had been, it tastes like honeyed milk.

“Take your time. We’re in no rush.”

It takes the opportunity to look around the room with quick, furtive glances. It is—expansive, airy, with high ceilings and double doors on the far side through which it can see the sky. There is the bed, of course, and there is a desk and a chair and a low table and an armchair and a hearth on the far wall with a roaring fire and—

So many things. A guest room, definitely. Somewhere to stash it while it is sick, and once it gets better they’ll move it to where it belongs.

It takes another sip of milk and holds it on its tongue. Rolls it around its mouth. Lets it go down slowly. It still doesn’t know what else is in it besides milk but it is sweet and it goes down easy and the lingering note on its tongue is crisp.

“But you are gonna hafta finish that,” the lord tells it, wry and amused. “If it works, we’ll keep usin’ it. If it doesn’t—I’ll figure somethin’ out.”

One of the hounds—and it is a hound, in the way that charcoal sketches are pictures, with static edges and star-studded void fur and brightly burning eyes that hurt to look at—whines, high in the throat, and nudges at its hand.

Oh. It eyes the cup—it had been nauseous but that is rapidly fading—and downs the rest of it in one go.

“Kid—okay,” the lord amends, and sighs, but doesn’t reprimand it. The hands with which he takes the mug back are gentle. “They won’t stick around for too long, but let ‘em keep you company, okay? Now go ahead and lie back down—you need the sleep.”

He is awake and he is—working, if the scattered papers next to his chair mean anything, and its belly is warm and the fog is lifting and it can work, it can, it—

Tries to move its legs and is promptly stopped by the star-hound still draped over them.

“Sleep.” He puts a hand on its shoulder and applies pressure. It folds. It lies down.

It is _not supposed to_ , the position is—vulnerable, its stomach is open its legs are pinned and if the lord needs it then it won’t be able to react in time—but then he’s sweeping his hand from shoulder to forehead, his fingers curling into its hair. Oh.

“Sleep,” he says again, and out of the corner of its eye it can see the flower made of light unfold, from bud to bloom. With his other hand, he pulls a blanket—a cloak—back over it again. “I’ll be here when you wake up.”

It sleeps.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I made a Discord server! If you'd like to come hear me yell about the Techno & Phil friendship, or chat about _to you I gift the end of things_ fics, then come [chase stardust with me](https://discord.gg/raeeQYE8AM).


	7. interlude

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wasn't going to have an interlude, originally - this fic was supposed to be entirely from Phil's point of view - but, well, sometimes the story tells itself. The total number of chapters for this fic has been updated to reflect this. :)

The kid is shivering again.

“We can’t give him any more blankets,” Memph says, lips in the grim line that usually means they’re about to gear up and lead a raid—but there is nothing and no one they can wreak havoc on, right now. “You know it as well as I do, Techno.”

And he does, he’s not an idiot, he knows how to take care of sick people—and yet.

Techno passes a hand over the kid’s hair. He leans into the touch. He’s still burning up. He’s not kicked off the blankets or the cloak but Techno reaches over to make sure those are still secured anyway. They might not be able to use any more blankets but at least the magic in the cloak should help.

When he looks up, Memph is staring at his hand.

“What?”

“He’s really not alright, is he?” they ask. Their voice is soft.

Techno checks what they’re looking at. The kid is pale, of course, and he’s sweating enough that they’re going to have to change his sheets again soon. There’s dust and the kind of grime that comes with living still on his wings, but Techno’s reluctant to do anything about that until the kid is awake.

“Explains why Sneeg hasn’t returned yet.” Memph shakes their head. “We _still_ haven’t found anything about him?”

“Nope.” Not for lack of trying, either. “The bastards didn’t keep records, the few advisors who didn’t run only know that the kid showed up one day out of nowhere, and the bastard himself is in the wind.”

“Fuck.”

“Yeah.” Techno sighs, long and low, tries to expel the worry with it. It only somewhat works. “If the fever doesn’t break soon—I dunno.”

The kid’s such a tiny thing, lying in the bed. He’s three quarters wings and feathers at this point. The sprawl doesn’t look comfortable, but if they put him on his stomach then he won’t be able to breathe, and if they put him on his side without any support then he rolls over onto his back even though it must surely hurt.

Techno leans over and pulls at the pillows again. They’ve held so far, but—just in case.

“You might have to.” Memph clears their throat. “Scar’s recipe is good—has to be, you know it, same as me—but it’s not working. Which means one of two things, Techno.”

Either Memph isn’t making it right, or it doesn’t work on the kid for whatever reason. And potions aren’t really their wheelhouse, that’s true, but they’re still the closest thing they’ve got to a potionsmaster.

“Technically not s’pposed to,” Techno warns. He’s really not. Not because there is anyone to stop him, but because what he does has more to do with the metaphysical than anything else. Distilling the potency of something that can destabilize souls into something that will only scald the impurities from a body, not burn it up, is—tricky.

Doable, but tricky. And even though the potions hadn’t took, Techno’s trick last night had. Kid’s still warm, but he’s not burning up. He’s not in danger of his brain cooking inside of his own skull.

_I built up a resistance. It was recent. It’s a waste, I don’t need it_.

He needs to talk to Sneeg.

“Since when did you care about _technically supposed to_?” Memph laughs, but it’s kind. They’ve stuck by the kid for almost as long as Techno himself as, even though they’ve still got duties that Calvin hasn’t been able to get them out of.

“That’s fair,” he allows. He passes a hand over the kid’s hair again, and feels something twist in his chest when the kid starts murmuring again. They need to get some water into him, and Techno has a full docket of meetings and briefings and papers to read, and a hundred thousand other things that demand his attention, now that he’s home.

He still lingers for a moment longer to watch Memph coax the kid into drinking before he goes.

* * *

“I’ve got nothing.”

Technoblade bares his teeth. Sneeg flinches, a communicator screen and half a planet away.

“Not your fault,” Techno manages to get out, trying to rein himself back in. It’s hard. He’s seen a lot of things over the years, and he’s known that people backed into corners will inevitably get desperate, but the extents to which this small no-name faction has attempted to gain influence is—

Techno chews on the inside of his cheek. “Not your fault,” he says again, but Sneeg just turns away.

“He’s still in the wind,” he says. “Abandoned all his people, just like that.”

“Tryin’ to save his own hide, more like.” It’s not that Techno _regrets_ threatening the bastard, but he could certainly have found a better time for it. He pushes up his mask to run a hand over his face. “It’s okay. It’s been a week, Sneeg. If you can’t find him, then come home. Let the others take over for a while. Fresh eyes will help.”

Sneeg frowns, but at least he’s not arguing again. “I just—you know?”

Techno knows. Still. “Come home,” he says, and it’s quiet, but there’s no other way to put this. Just as he needs TapL and Calvin and Jabber and Sky and Memph and Bealio, they all have their places. “We need you here.”

And there’s the side-eye, distinctive even over holo. He can imagine the shuffle that Sneeg does when he’s embarrassed. “We’ve still work to do here.”

Sophie, and the end of the war, and the regional stability. Right. Still. “As soon as you’re done.”

“Will do,” Sneeg agrees, and he’s found his voice again. He clears his throat. “How’s Sky and Memph?”

“I stole Memph from their usual duties for their potions.”

There’s a considering noise. “I thought you were gonna send them out to ferry people if they were digging in their heels?”

“The kid got sick,” Techno says at last, and feels his shoulders slump. The kid is sick, and that’s the truth, period, end of sentence. But there’s still a moment of—disheartenment, maybe, or remorse. He’s supposed to be taking care of the kid and has to admit that for all of his diligence, for all the things he’s planned for, he hadn’t seen this coming.

“Sick?” Sneeg leans in, even though the communicator holo can’t do more than transmit images from the waist-up. “What do you mean, _sick_?”

“He keeled over an hour or so into arrivin’ at the stronghold.” Techno closes his eyes and pinches the bridge of his nose, but the image of the kid swaying on his feet overlays on the back of his eyelids. “He was nappin’ the entire way there, and he was warm when we left—Memph thinks it might hafta do with stress.”

“That makes sense.” Sneeg sighs, and it’s staticky over the call. “When are the Hermits coming? If you can get Scar, that might be better than us stumbling around in the dark.”

That’s true enough. “Sky’s still trying to get a hold of them. They’ve progressed from threats to actually making plans to go off-world and drag ‘em by the ear, if they keep missin’ calls.”

“And you got Bembo on the line, right?”

“The call right after you,” Techno confirms. “Simon’s a lil busy with the festival comin’ up, and Plancke’s runnn’ herd on the rest of the team, but Bembo’s available. Hopefully they’ll have somethin’ for us.”

Though it isn’t reassuring that Techno had put out that call not twenty-four hours before, and Bembo had gotten back in that timeframe. He’d honestly been expecting that Sky or Jabber would need to track them down for him, or that he’d need to keep ringing Bembo until they’d picked up.

But Sneeg rubs at the back of his head. “Man. It’ll be weird, not calling him ‘kid,’” he says, like there’s no doubt that they’ll be finding a name.

“Yeah.” It’ll be weird, but hopefully it will be a good change. The only thing that Techno is worried about is if the kid will recognize or response to it as his own, after what looks like six months of not being called by it. And names are important, inherent, distinctive; just one is enough for the Interdimensional Court to track someone down.

People rarely do a reverse search, plopping a person down with their details and their history and then looking up a name, but if Bembo’s efforts don’t pan out and the kid still can’t tell them—they’re running out of options.

Sneeg laughs though, just a little. “Can’t wait to have a name to a face. And you’ve got somebody magicking him armor and clothing?”

Techno succumbs to the urge to roll his eyes. “What are you, Plancke?”

“Oh, no, never. Plancke has got this shit on _lock_ , but, you know, just in case they haven’t been able to track you down and shake you yet. Since you said they were busy with Hypixel?”

And as much as Techno loves his family—“When are they not?”

* * *

Usually Bembo is a delight. All the Hypixel admins are, really—Techno’s known them for years, and they’ve known him, and they’re the wackiest bag of cats that he’s ever encountered.

He’s feeling none of that energy now. Bembo is solemn, as they wait for Techno to finish pulling his thoughts together.

“The first time I saw him,” Techno says, and he is patient now because there is the promise of blood later. “He was scrawny. The lord demanded he kneel, and he knelt. The woman that Sneeg caught—she told him to _ask me nicely_ , and he knelt. That loyalty is transferrable, Bembo.”

“Which means,” Bembo says, as equally as patient, “you need to hold it.”

Techno does a double take, but Bembo’s face doesn’t break, not even under the force of his glare, not even when the hounds start growling off-screen.

“Think about it, Techno. He’s earned himself a name, hasn’t he? He’s earned a reputation. Sophie was right to mark him as dangerous. And now you’ve told me that the people who he last worked for are in the wind, and that there are no records of him, and that he won’t, or can’t, tell you his own name.”

Laid out like that, of course the answer is obvious. With a name, they can perform a manhunt. Without one, people start slipping through the cracks. And the kid is so scrawny, so small—

Bembo is gentle, at least, when they say: “Maybe the contract is a good thing. Not in its current form, but—in some form, at least.”

“He shouldn’t be under contract at _all_.” That’s the sticking point. The kid is young—so young— _too_ young. But there is startling cleverness behind the eyes, and Techno remembers the speed with which he’d taken down that poor errant courier. He is always looking, always watchful, and even if he tenses like he’s waiting for something to happen, he never backs down.

There’s still somebody under there, and Techno knows all too well what it’s like to be backed into corners. It hasn’t happened in years, but all champions have to come from nowhere.

“He shouldn’t be,” Bembo agrees, “but he is, and—I’m just saying. Think about it a little bit more, before you decide. If what you’re telling me is true—that he’s doing all these things because you are the oathbearer and the holder of his contract—then what happens to him when you release him?”

Techno doesn’t understand. “He gets to go _home_.” The Empire is Techno’s, in the way that Hypixel is Bembo’s, and Techno had earned his wings, once upon a time. He knows that there’s a place for the kid to go back to. “He gets to—do his own thing. Do what he wants.”

“Is that what he wants?”

“The point,” Techno tells them, voice as dry as the desert, “is that right now he won’t _tell_ me what he wants. But if I release him—then there’s no reason for him to not tell me, right?”

Communicator holo technology has developed over the years; Techno sees the furrow of Bembo’s brow as clear as day, the way they chew over their words before they commit to them.

“The thing is,” Bembo says slowly, “I haven’t been able to find anything about him on my end, either. Blond kids with blue eyes are a dime a dozen, and according to the grapevine, we haven’t had a new Winged in the last five years.”

The kid can’t be any older than fourteen, maybe fifteen. If Bembo isn’t finding anything in the last five years, then either he hasn’t made any contact with any of the other Winged, or he’d earned his at a younger age than that. For the kid’s own sake, Techno hopes it’s the former, even if it makes their job harder.

“So he’s been super private. Then why did he come here?”

“That’s what I’m worried about.” Bembo leans back. “He might have just been visiting—your Empire’s been making waves, Techno, even off-world—and then gotten caught up in the politics. And some people can be fine in isolation for a long time, as long as it’s voluntary isolation, you know? They’ve still got to have an option to go elsewhere.”

“And goin’ from somewhere with no people to somewhere with a lot of people—you’re tellin’ me he might not know how to be—by himself, anymore.”

“You had to go tell him to _sleep_ ,” Bembo points out, because they’re one of the best dev admins that Hypixel’s got, because they never forget, because they’re the one who has a finger on the heartbeat of gossip and for someone like that, details are easy. “And now you want to cut him loose. I’m just saying, that’s a big change.”

“A necessary change,” Techno argues back, but, “I see your point.” That’s a kid who needs help, and Techno can give it to him.

Either way, they can’t do anything until the kid’s fever breaks.

* * *

Techno slips into the room quietly, calls done, paperwork handed off, TapL and Calvin running herd on the rest of the stronghold. When he checks the clock, it’s only a few hours past the dinner hour. That’s actually not too bad.

Sometimes being an Emperor feels less like being a leader and more like herding cats. Except those cats have netherite weapons, like to hunt for land and power and shiny things more than they do prey, and think that he’s not sleeping enough (even though he is) or eating enough (three meals a day, what more do they want?).

This, as dark as it sounds, is easier. More straightforward.

Techno sits down in the chair and checks the kid’s temperature again, frowning at what he finds. The kid curls tighter into himself to press into the touch.

_You’re not even keeping it in line properly_ , the woman had hissed. She’d been power-crazed and off her rocker, but she’d still been coherent enough to be an authority figure to the kid, apparently. Confident enough, even captured and tied to a chair with enemies standing at her front and back, that the kid isn’t a kid.

_It’s going to bite the hand that feeds_ , she’d said, and Techno tucks the kid’s hair behind his ear.

His breathing’s shallow. Too shallow. Techno hums a little, waits for the response, settles himself more comfortably in the chair.

The jug and the mug are still here. Thank Memph for that. He brushes his fingers over the flower on the kid’s pillow, tops off the power there, before he goes for any of the heavy-duty stuff.

Or, well. Maybe less heavy-duty, more intricate. He closes his eyes, and breathes in, and opens his eyes, and breathes out.

There you are, the universe says, and the mantle settles around his shoulders again.

Techno doesn’t bother giving an answer; they both know why they’re here. The hounds spring up and out of his shadow as he lets the bleedover happen, and then there are stars under his hands and fire between his fingers and starlight pooling in the cup of his palm again.

It’s still a little too cold, too potent. Techno reaches for the fire and watches as the ichor ignites. A little overkill, still, but better than giving the kid something that’ll make him burn up.

When there’s enough tempered in his hand, he pours it into the milk. If the fever doesn’t break, he’ll have the second serving ready to go.

Until then—

Techno closes his hand, and the rest of the ichor goes up in a fireball, flashing through colors. One of the hounds scoffs at him where it’s bracing the kid’s back—cheating and all, but that’s fair, the semi-liquid smoke state is better for going around the kid’s wings than something more solid would be.

He leans back in his chair, tips back his head, and stares into the starscape that’s replaced the four walls of the room. “Cheatin’,” he admits, and waits for the judgement.

None comes.

“Really?” He knows what he is. He’d built up the reputation with his own two hands. “You’re not gonna say anythin’ about the blatant rule-bendin’ I’ve got goin’ on here?”

The universe has its favorite children, and anyway, there are bigger fish to fry than that.

Techno snorts again, and it disturbs a few of the stars, sends them wheeling in the air like marbles scattering in the night. “I’m gonna nap for a minute,” he mumbles. “Gotta get the milk in the kid sooner rather than later. After that—”

The yawn startles even him, but there’s no one here, only the kid who’s asleep and the hounds who aren’t snitches. He pushes up his mask to rub at his eyes.

He’s got no other work to do. Court’s not until morning, and the advisors he’d left behind with the Empire while he’d gone with a handful of volunteers to give Sophie a hand are still setting up his docket of meetings. The chair’s pretty comfy. He needs to keep an eye on the kid, watch for allergies, make sure the doctored milk works.

He runs a hand over the kid’s hair again, tries not to let the snarls catch and pull, and doesn’t wince at the whine. He does at the whispering, though.

“I’m sorry, sorry, I—I’ll be right up—”

Techno sweeps his thumb over the back of his skull, back and forth, like he’s seen Memph do for other kids in the stronghold.

“What’s your name, kid?” he asks, even though he’s not going to get an answer. And, yeah, there he goes—the kid whines, high-pitched and in the back of the throat, more wounded animal than human, and goes limp.

Sometimes the kid is coherent. Sometimes he’s not. Techno still has to swallow hard and check his impulse to reach for his weapon before his grip can tighten in the kid’s hair.

“Shh,” he says instead of the hundred and one other things he wants to say. “Shh, it’s okay, kid, it’s fine. Stay down. It’s okay.”

“Can’t be sick,” the kid whispers, like it’s a mantra to himself. And who knows, maybe it is. There’s certainly enough desperation and determination for it. “Can’t be sick, it’ll go to waste, can’t, can’t—”

The mutterings devolve from there. Techno runs his hand through the kid’s hair again. And, well, he’s already letting the bleedover happen—what’s a little more?

He blinks. Red and black and blue and green and gold and then the ten thousand other colors of the universe overtake his vision, flaring brightly like supernovae before they settle. When they do, he reins in his anger again.

The kid’s soul is guttering. It’s not quite fractured yet, but it’s close. There’s stress lines all over the surface of it, and the tether that’s supposed to keep his gift grounded to his soul is—fraying.

He blinks again, just to see if that’ll change what he’s seeing, but no. He can still see the individual threads of those golden ropes, spot the places where they’ve been hacked at. They’ve been stretched and bent and warped out shape. Techno’s never seen damage like this before. Never seen damage to the tethers, period.

But they’re still connected by the barest of threads, which means that they still have a little room to breathe.

Techno keeps one hand on the kid’s head and moves to rest the other against his back, between the wings. That sets the kid off again, mutters and whispers and low-pitched whines that he’d expect from Floof, not from somebody human.

He funnels the anger until it can fit on the head of a pin, and then brings it to bear. Light fills his hand, more delicate than his netherite sword, heavier-hitting than his axe.

“I’ll be more useful with them,” the kid is muttering when Techno brings the needle in. “Milord, please—please—”

“You don’t have to be _useful_ ,” Techno snarls, words tipping off his tongue before he can stop himself. First the touch, and then the wings, and now this? 

The kid—shuts up. Shuts down. Goes quiet. Doesn’t say a word again, just tenses under his hand, shivering like it’s winter and not the middle of spring.

_How do you think we could keep an angel of death in line? The same way you keep a tamed wolf_.

The stars burn. The mantle hums, and the hounds growl back.

“Not yet,” he says, because it’s true. There’s no one here to take their anger out on, just a kid who needs help. But when the time comes—well.

They’ve been doing all of this because they are afraid of what he can do, even though he hasn’t gotten serious yet. Maybe it’s time to stop playing around.

He brings the needle in again, and there it goes, dipping in and out of the golden fabric of the tether, reinforcing and strengthening and making it as good as new. Better than new—he cheats a little for that, too, but no one says anything about the gilding he’s putting here.

The kid’s still breathing shallow when Techno comes up for air. It’s not whistling, or sounding strained, just—light. Like he’s learned how to sleep quietly, too.

But he seems to breathe easier at least, as Techno finishes resewing the wings into their anchors. Soul-stuff isn’t quite the same as body-stuff, and he believes Memph and their prediction about stress being the big factor behind the kid’s fever, but still. It feels good to be able to at least fix _something_ , even if the rest of it needs to wait.

After, he holds the needle between two fingers and tests the tip of it against his thumb. All that work, and the point is still as sharp as any knife.

It floats in the dark when he lets it go, set slowly adrift, leaving trails of light behind; liquid and sinuous, but no less dangerous for it. It catches on fire as it does, blue and green and white and purple, before the colors fade out into the unknowable.

He feels it, too. That rage. Coal under pressure might become diamond, but fury compressed becomes something more dangerous than that.

“Soon,” he promises the wolves, and they bare their teeth with him. “And don’t tell Calvin, but—he might have a point. I’m gonna nap. Don’t wake me up unless it’s the kid, alright?”

He really should go seek out his own bed, but it makes him feel better to stay close by, in case the kid needs him during the night. And anyway, he needs to get that second mug of milk and starlight into him. It’ll be easier to do that if he’s here, waiting.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In case you missed it: the wing lore, in (almost) all my works, is that they are a gift from the universe when someone ~~worthy~~ has adventured on a Hardcore world, made it to the End, killed the dragon, and taken the leap of faith into the Well. Their appearances are whatever the Player wants them to be, whether that's feathered, scaled, greyscale, colored vibrantly, etc etc. (I first used this in my fic _Home_ , but it's the same worldbuilding of every fic in my series _to you I gift the end of things_.)
> 
> Bembo, Plancke, and Simon are actual Hypixel administrators (though they've never RPed, so I've lovingly transplanted them into my universes with my own interpretations of characterization).


	8. in your fable I can’t steer

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> All named people are either YouTubers/streamers (TapL, Calvin) or is a stream moderator (Memph, Jabber, Jillian). To my knowledge they have never RPed, so please take characterizations with massive heaps of salt :>

Later, only three things will stand out in memory of that fractured time:

The hot milk, honey-sweet and snow-crisp; the humming, by a single bass voice who had sung no melody but five notes that repeated; and two white eyes set into a pale face, staring back.

* * *

When it wakes up coherent, there is a cloak stretched out over its blankets and a man slumped forward onto its bed, head pillowed on his arms, and the rising sun is peeking through the balcony curtains.

It tries not to make a sound. It’s very good at it—has to be, after years of hunting animals and then half a year of hunting humans—but something must still alert him anyway, because he shifts on his arms, and then lifts his head, and cracks his neck.

It scrambles back when he rises into a proper sitting position. It is in the bed while he is not, and—it should be the other way around, at least—it is taking up the entire bed when the lord should be able to sleep stretched not curled up—

“Mornin’,” he yawns. He blinks, and then does a double take. “Kiddo. You’re—movin’ a lot more than usual.”

That’s what happens when people are sick, it almost says in its surprise, but manages to bite down on its tongue in time.

“I mean.” He yawns again, and it shows off his teeth, and then it realizes—oh. He’s not wearing his mask. The blood god is surprisingly human beneath it, if with odder eyes than the regular baseline. “It’s good to see you up. You need any water?”

“No, sir,” it says—tries to say. The croaking that it turns into doesn’t help its case.

But instead of getting angry at its blatant lie, he just—waves it off, and reaches down next to his chair. “You gotta drink. Memph’s rules, and they’re the closest thing we’ve got to a doctor around here.”

Doctor’s orders, and lord’s orders. It drinks, even though its arms are so embarrassingly weak that he has to help it hold the cup. But he doesn’t say a word, doesn’t mention how it should be better than this, doesn’t make it ask nicely.

He gives it water, and pulls the blankets back up again afterwards.

“You need to rest,” he says. “You just broke a fever, kid, and you’ve been pretty sick. So you need to rest up, alright?”

“But I’m feeling better now.” And it’s true. Whatever had been in that drink—it’s not sure, and it half-thinks it had imagined the stars and the ichor, except it can still taste honey on its tongue and the bedsheets around it are still ice-cold to the touch despite the warmth of the room—it had done the job. “Sir, I can—”

“No,” he says, immediately, period, the end. It shuts up. It breathes in deeply through its teeth, and makes itself small, and tries to show its apology in its very posture.

It doesn’t get to stay like that for long, because he puts his hands on its shoulders. He squeezes gently, and one stays there while the other one goes up to pat its head. He does not let it go.

“Rest,” he says, and his voice is soft again. “When you can stand up without falling over, then we’ll talk about it.”

Okay. It closes its eyes, and breathes in, and leans into the touch. He is delaying the punishment, and he is being gracious, and it is grateful.

He lingers, for a while, but eventually he moves away. It waits for him to leave—it glances down, but the papers are neatened up now, and in its place is a basket.

“Since you’re awake now—kid, can I clean your wings?”

It twitches its wings, startled. And—oh, they’re dusty, they’re dirty, the lord has been kind and not mentioned it but it is messing up the bed, it has _dirtied_ his _cloak_ —

“I don’t care about that,” he says, and abruptly it realizes it had said that out loud. “It’ll wash out. And it’s fine if you want to do it yourself, kid, I don’t mind—”

“Milord,” it gasps, and tries to reach for courage. Fails. Reaches for desperation instead, because the old lord had always liked that and he’d been more willing to listen to its requests for food or sleep rations when it had. “Please, please.”

“Kid—” what, he doesn’t say, but it can hear him anyway.

“Please preen my wings,” it chokes out, because of course the lord would make it ask, but that’s fine, it knows its place, it can do this. It has done this before. This is a reward, and a reminder, and a right of the lord. “Milord, mercy, please—”

“Alright,” the lord says, and it shuts up. Draws in a breath through its teeth. Can’t quite keep itself from whining. “Alright, ah—okay. Okay.”

Okay. It breathes out, and clenches its fists to hide the shaking, and slips out of the bed to kneel at the foot of his chair—

Or tries to, at least. The lord stops it with a hand on its shoulder and a huff of breath in its hair and a sharp “Kid, you gotta stay in bed.”

But every time the lord preens its wings—it doesn’t understand. “Milord,” it tries, because maybe it needs to explain, and then things will go back to the way they always are, and it will finally be able to—if not predict what’s coming next, then at least know what is supposed to happen. “I—the bed is too far away. The wings will be at an awkward angle.”

“The wings—oh, kid.” He squeezes its shoulder and pushes it gently back. “No, I don’t need you to do that. Don’t worry about that, okay? Just sit in the bed.”

It sits in the bed.

He resettles himself in the chair, and says “Hey,” before he touches its outstretched wings, and yet when he does his hand is gentle. “See, this is just fine. No need for you to—move yourself, or things like that, okay?”

“Yes, sir,” it replies, because that’s a tone of voice that wants a reply. And then he digs his fingers in, sifting through them to find the pin feathers, and its breath catches in its throat.

The lord makes a noise in the back of his throat, but he doesn’t say anything. He doesn’t mention the way it slumps forward, elbows on its thighs, head bowed as it shivers beneath his touch. He doesn’t say a word about its trembling limbs, trying to keep itself still.

“It’s alright,” he murmurs, and the hounds are gone but he’s still here and he is still as even-handed as when they’d first met. The touch is gentle and the rhythmic motion is soothing. Nothing at all like the last lord. “You’re alright. It’s just me.”

And he has been so kind—he has been so gracious—maybe, maybe—

It leans forward and lies down on the bed. Technoblade pauses—but then he repositions its wing with gentle hands, from the mid-air pose it had been holding to resting in his lap. He breaks open the pin feathers with neat little rolls against his fingers, pulls at only the feathers that are ready to molt, and scratches at the itching skin underneath with gentle fingernails.

He goes from the top of the wing and works his way downward. He takes his time. He doesn’t rush like it’s a chore. He sweeps away the dust and grime with a damp cloth and a gentle hand, and he neatens the vanes with the same care he’d gifted it when he’d healed its feather for the first time.

“You can sleep, if you need,” he says, when he’s halfway done with its right wing. He’s had to change out his dusting cloth twice now, and he’s not even started on the underside yet, but it can feel the difference between the cleaned areas and the still-dirty ones. It can, out of the corner of its eye, see the proper iridescent colors that its wings should be. “Memph’s orders for that, too.”

It’s so tired, it doesn’t even get a moment to try and stay awake out of propriety—it dozes off.

* * *

“All done.”

His hands leave. It arches its wings, trying to chase it, before it realizes—and then folds them back up.

He doesn’t mention it. It hears the sweep of the rag and the rustling of clothing, and as it stirs from its position to sit up properly, it can see that the sun’s crested over the icy mountainside.

He doesn’t look at it, either, when he’s finished fussing over the dirty rags and resettling himself in his chair. But task done, he doesn’t leave. He doesn’t order it out of bed.

“So I noticed,” the lord says, folding his hands in his lap, “that you have inflammation around the joints where your wings meet your back.”

He is holding himself still, as still as the big cats before they pounce, and maybe it had been hallucinating the shadows and the hounds and the stars, but it definitely hadn’t been hallucinating the axe.

It looks around on instinct before it can stop itself, but he doesn’t have it—but of course he wouldn’t need to carry it openly, this is his own castle, he doesn’t need to play those kinds of games—

“So I wanna ask,” the lord continues, with such deadly evenness that it prepares itself for whatever kill order he has to give. “What happened.”

He has an axe, and he’d threatened the prisoner with it, and it doesn’t know if it has Silk Touch—if he would rely on the sharp edge of his weapon and his own swift arm—but he’d been able to heal its feather, which means—which means—he might not even make it too painful—

It’s not allowed out of bed. It straightens as much as it can instead. Clenches its hands together, tight enough for bones to creak. Bites the inside of its cheek until it can _get yourself together, you’re not a baby, come on soldier_.

“Silk Touch enchantments on an axe,” it reports, “to remove them. For an experiment revolving around if universe-gifted wings will grow back, if they were removed.”

It had been better than pinioning. It had been just pain, and that it had been able to learn to ignore. Even if it had taken it a long time.

It’s staring over the lord’s shoulder, which is the only reason why it doesn’t see the transformation until it’s too late to stop itself from flinching back. He doesn’t have his mask on so it can see his jawline shifting, his teeth sharpening, his eyes flickering from white to red, as a shadow falls over his face and sharpens his features until he looks more nightmare than man. The very air starts to burn as stars turn into tongues of flame, the yellow and white and blue of the devastatingly hot.

“What did you say?” he asks, and his voice hurts to hear, but to make any motion in the face of a predator is to invite it to a hunt, and so it freezes, and holds its breath, and tries desperately to find a way out—

But the previous lord hadn’t been like this, and neither had the trainer, and it doesn’t know what to do—it flinches and bows and bends to press its forehead into the blankets, wings spread because he likes seeing it pretty—and the motion doesn’t hurt like it usually does but it can’t think about that when he is angry, and it is here, and he will make use of his weapon—

And then the lord sighs.

“Silk Touch,” he says, and then something in a language it doesn’t know.

It doesn’t dare to look up.

“How recent was this?”

It doesn’t know how long it’s been in this room, being sick. Best to be truthful. “I don’t know, sir.”

“Better question, then.” He breathes in harshly through his nose. He still isn’t _touching it_ , oh stars. “When did you… get them back?”

“A week before the end of the war, sir.”

He speaks in that foreign language again. It’s elegant, even though he’s biting off his consonants.

The angel curls in on itself, breath stuttering in its throat. It thinks it keens in panic, but can’t be sure.

“Kid, hey, hey, it’s okay.” He reaches out, and it tenses, but all he does is lay his hand on its head. “I’m not mad at you. Just—”

He sighs. “They’re inflamed,” he says instead, “and if it’s been a week, then—well. Gotta get Memph to confirm, but I think the best move’ll be to keep an eye on it. Maybe some heat packs—are they sore?”

It is a bearable pain. “No, sir,” it answers, but his fingers tighten in its hair and he clicks his tongue and there is a tangible weight to the air, now. And he hasn’t said anything about it being sick, just _rest_ , and it needs to be _useful_ —

“Sorry, sir, I’m sorry—”

“No, no.” He releases his grip and it whines involuntarily, rears up as much as it dares, goes looking for his hand because even if the pulling had hurt, it had only been a little. And anyway, it’s nothing as bad as the ache of its bones or the nip of the cold or the soreness down the line of its spine. It is an acceptable price by far.

But he says “Shh,” and it shushes, and then he’s reaching forward to—put both arms around it, oh—

He pulls it out of its bow to tuck it against his shoulder, and even though he’s half-sitting, half-standing, all braced against the bed, his hands are warm on its back.

“If you want them, sir—” it manages to choke out, because it’s easy when he’s holding it gently. He is a new lord and it had seen his swiftness with weapons, he would make it—quick—and they are the winning side, they would surely have painkillers aplenty—“The procedure worked before, and—”

“Hells no, kid.”

It sucks in a breath, caught between relief and terror and confusion.

He pulls away, but only far away enough so that he can stare down at it, and it shivers under the weight of his eyes. “Never, never,” he says, and it doesn’t understand. “Of all the things to—never.”

He runs his hands up its back, gets close to the joint, and it waits for the pain, but—he doesn’t press his fingers in.

“I never want you to be in pain,” and it’s in the same voice he’d said _three meals a day_ , and it doesn’t know what to do. It doesn’t reassure him like it should, and can only lie and wait and listen. “And if that means heat packs and warmin’ enchantments while you’re on the tail end of recovery, then that’s what you’re gettin’. Alright?”

It swallows hard. It doesn’t know what expression is on its face but there must be something there because he adds, “Okay?” and those star-eyes are searching its face for—something, but it doesn’t understand, it doesn’t understand. “You deserve better than that. Things are going to be better than that.”

He says it like he believes it. And—it’s Technoblade, who’d won the war, who had accepted its contract, who rules an Empire. It is completely within his power.

It doesn’t know what he means by better, but—three meals a day, eight hours a night, he had brought it up from its kneel with his own two hands—he’d taken care of it when it’d been sick and useless and he’d preened its wings—

It’s not going to last. It is going to screw something up, and he will correct it with discipline, and it will accept it with both outstretched hands because the alternative is—

It inhales, and exhales, and all he does is wait for it to—acknowledge him—come to a decision—

It leans in until it’s pressing its forehead to his chest again. Shivers. Presses up, when he moves one hand from back to head, and closes its eyes, and thinks: what does it need to do to keep this?

* * *

They’ve just finished eating—a breakfast of cold meat and bread and cheese again, but they’re fresh, not the stale things it had packed in the lord’s handkerchief that it had been banking on, as well as another cup of hot milk and honey and starlight that the lord had tipped in, still burning, from his hand—when someone knocks on the door.

It looks at the lord. The lord looks at the door. After a moment he grunts and calls out, “Come in.”

It creaks open. “Techno,” an armored man says, leaning against the door frame. He glances at it where it has buried itself in blankets, but turns his attention back to Technoblade soon enough. “Sky managed to get a hold of the Hermits. They’re willing to come over, if we still need them.”

“That quickly?” The lord is surprised, but not angry, even though he hadn’t been informed before Sky made a decision of their own. Rather, he sounds—pleased. “I thought they were busy.”

“I know Sneeg’s already given you the talk, so I won’t. Anyway, I’ve got Hypixel on the line, too. It’s Simon.”

“Simon?” Technoblade rises to his feet, taking the detritus of their breakfast with him. “I thought he’d be too busy with the annual festival coming up.”

“It’s Simon,” the person repeats, as though that is explanation in and of itself. “You know he’s always going to make time for you, too.”

Technoblade shakes his head; spots the angel, kneeling up on the bed. “Oh, right. Hey, kid. This is TapL. He’s one of my oldest friends.”

“Hello,” TapL says, and gives it a nod, and there is a smile there but he’s too distracted to pay closer attention to it. “And don’t you think you can distract me with the kid, Techno. I’ve got a host of people waiting at the throne room for the Emperor at morning court.”

“Bruh. Yeah, I’m comin’.” The lord takes two steps away from its bedside—TapL falls into step with him, two steps behind and one to the left, reaching out to take the basket that the lord drops into his hands, and it wonders if there will be a place for it—before he pauses, and hesitates. “Wait. Knew I was forgetting something, argh.”

Technoblade turns. He’s pulled his mask over his face again, but it can still see the line of his mouth beneath it. “Hang tight, kid. I’ll get—mm, does Jabber have time today?”

TapL shakes his head from where he’s standing at his lord’s back. “No, Jabber’s magicking up the new set of armor, remember?”

“Ah, right. It’ll have to be Jillian, then.”

“Jillian?” TapL is more incredulous than reverent. It tenses in its seat, but it’s weak, just coming out of a sickness, and the lord has said hang tight—and anyway, there he is, laughing under his breath.

“Why,” the lord says, and it is a taunt. “Something wrong with Jillian?”

“No, no,” TapL backtracks, “nothing wrong with Jillian. Just—you know what’s going to happen if you give her a kid to look after, right?”

There is an edge in Technoblade’s voice when he says, “Considerin’ the circumstances, I _want_ it to happen.”

TapL’s face smooths over, becomes professionally unreadable. “If that’s the case, then yeah. That’s fair. I’ll clear her schedule for you. But you’re still planning on keeping the kid with you?”

Its breath catches in its throat. Would he—but he’d taken it in hand, under his direct command by contract—

And anyway, the lord is already shaking his head, yes. “Yeah, as much as I can, but—just in case. Until he gets a better sense of the stronghold, at least. Even though I don’t really like it.”

He sighs and shifts on his feet. “Do you think—no, it’s Simon,” he amends. He clicks his tongue. When he strides back over to the angel’s bedside, he puts a hand on the back of its head. “Kid, I’m gonna have to go—duty calls—but I’ll be back as soon as I can, alright? And I’ll bring someone over to keep you company when I’m gone in just a minute. Until then—”

He glances up and away. A shadow uncurls by his feet, before it springs up and takes a familiar shape. It’s the small one, with eyes like sapphire stars, and oh, it hadn’t been hallucinating yesterday then.

“Take care of him, alright?” he says, but it’s to the sketch of a hound, not it. It stares anyway. “I’ll be right back.”

The hound wuffs, and it sounds like the ice spires singing in wind, or the tinkle of winking stars—something quiet and unnamable.

If it protested now—he might, he has been generous—but he is a leader of men, _duty calls_. He has promised to _be right back_.

It stays quiet and doesn’t protest. Technoblade sweeps his thumb across the back of its skull before he goes.

Its own breaths sound loud in the silence. The hound promptly curls up around its side, and it doesn’t breathe—probably doesn’t need to, and it wonders for a moment just what it’s made of. It watches it settle in, running its fingers over the lord’s cloak thrown on top of the blankets.

It buries its hands in the depths of the cloth and feels the warmth sink in through to its bones. Then it gives in and hides itself under it, and it’s like a hug from the lord, except all the time, even when he is gone and busy, and now it’s big enough to fold around itself twice over. More the lord’s size than its own, not like when he’d shrunk it down to fit it.

How many minutes pass, as it lies down and watches the hound’s stars shift in its fur, it doesn’t know. It gives it plenty of time to think, at least.

It had raised its voice at Technoblade, and he hadn’t gotten angry. It had gotten sick, and he hadn’t gotten angry. It doesn’t have its armor on, and he hadn’t demanded to know why it isn’t prepared.

Instead he’d left behind a personal beacon in the shape of a flower, the likes of which it’s only ever heard of in hushed stories with awe-filled tones, and it understands why now. It reaches over to cradle the flower in its hands as it sits cross-legged in the bed, lap full of its lord’s cloak, and it’s warm and it feels—light. Weightless. Sprawled boneless on the surface of the sea and drifting, limbs flung out and comfortable because the water will hold—

Its wings.

It spreads its wings, and they are clean, and comfortable, and _preened_ , and it doesn’t hurt anymore. It can complete a downstroke without fire lancing up from joint to spine to neck.

Something fills the space between its ribs, and it is a feeling it hadn’t realized it’d been missing.

A year and a day, the contract had said. Until the lord amends the contract then the conditions still stand: service, in return for a victory. He’d won the war. He has, legally, held up his side of the bargain.

And even though it still has—something to do, something it had come to this world for in the first place—it wonders, daringly, if there is any way to extend the contract.

* * *

The shadow wuffs again, ears pricking up, nebulae orbiting and unwinding and exploding in supernova.

It looks up from its nest of blankets at the creak of the door, but it’s just Technoblade. And—someone else.

“So that’s where your cloak went,” they say. They’re wearing armor and the familiar blue cloak, a sword at the hip, but the gait with which they walk at the lord’s heels is the same as Sneeg’s, even if they’d hesitated for a split second at the door and done a double-take. It’s the same as the blood god’s.

“This is Jillian,” Technoblade tells it, walking over. “She’ll sit with you today while I get stuff done, alright?”

Jillian nods, but the unimpressed look she gives her lord is fond. “Yeah, your majesty, you’re gonna be late if you don’t hurry.”

“It’ll be fine, they can’t start without me anyway.” Technoblade huffs, and waves a hand, and ah. Here in his own domain, in his own stronghold, his own seat of power, he acts like a lord.

But he doesn’t want to be called a lord. Or maybe not by it, since he doesn’t correct Jillian. It doesn’t understand.

“Hey, kid, look at me.”

It looks up to stare at his chin.

“If anyone gives you any trouble,” he says, not quiet at all, “and that includes Jillian, okay—if _anyone_ give you trouble while I’m not with you, then you let me know. Alright?”

It glances behind the lord’s back, in case Jillian has taken offense, but all she does is give it a nod and a smile.

“Promise me, kid,” Technoblade says.

“Yes, sir.”

There’s a pause. Then Jilian asks, “ _Sir_?” and the look she gives the back of her lord’s head is dangerous.

“I told you.” Technoblade sighs, but he steps forward, and puts a hand around its shoulders. He brings it close, to tuck it against his side. “Thanks, kid. Jillian, you treat him gently, alright? And you,” he adds, ruffling the ears of the shadowy hound, even though his fingers pass through them like mist. “Keep him company.”

“What do you think I am, chopped liver?” Jillian huffs, but she’s smiling, and the lord is too, and then the lord is letting it go and gone.

It’s alone with a new person, for the first time, since—since its contract had transferred.

It shouldn’t ask. It shouldn’t be a burden, a nuisance, a problem, not when it’s been sick for days already and this is a new person, not the lord, in charge of its care.

But Technoblade had said _if anyone gives you any trouble then let me know_ , and he had said _the contract means you’re in my care_ , and he had been so gentle with the preening.

Its bags, its knife, its sword—they’re on the low table, in sight. And it’s not too far away, so maybe it’ll be fine, maybe she won’t be annoyed.

They’ve taken care of it while it was _useless_. So the chances are—

“Please,” it whispers into the silence, and surprises itself at its own daring. “Can I have—”

“You’re shivering,” Jillian says, when it can’t finish. “You need another blanket, kiddo?”

Not a blanket, but, “The—the bag. On the table.”

“Ah, yeah, that’s a bit far for you, isn't it.” Jillian makes her way to the table. “Here you go.”

She doesn’t drop the bag in its lap; she hands it over gently, with care, and watches as it runs its fingers over the bag and hefts the weight in its hands.

It remembers its manners late, says “Thank you,” with enough of a delay that it’s preparing to duck. But when it checks her hands and her shoulders and the line of her mouth out of the corner of its eye, Jillian is smiling.

“You’re welcome,” she says, and unlike when the lord had been here, she’s quiet. “Damn, you’re a cute kid, aren’t ya?”

It doesn’t know what to say. It blinks. Words rise in its throat, but it shoves them down. It is not worthy. There is no point.

“So?” She nods to the bag in its hands. “Is that all you came here with?”

It’s wearing new clothes and its weapons are on the table, but she’d seen that, she knows it. She’s asking about other things. “Yes, sir.”

Jillian waves it off. “Not a sir, kid, god. Though it was funny as hell seeing you call Techno that and him trying not to grimace. Heh.”

But—“He’s the lord?”

“That’s the funny thing. He’s an Emperor, and yeah, that affords him respect—he holds court and all—but you’ll be sticking near the staff and the guard, I think. Everyone here’s friendly. You’ll be fine.”

It doesn’t know. It can’t know for sure, not until it sees with its own eyes, but it wants to believe. It does.

It runs its fingers over the worn leather of its bag instead. It’s still waterproof, after everything, and feeling the familiar metal buckles and old stitching beneath its fingers is more soothing than it thinks it should be.

Jillian heads over to occupy the chair Technoblade had slept in, and it eyes her when she’s not looking. She’s armed with a sword. No shield, but no brace of potions on the belt, either. There’s a chrysanthemum sewn into the cloak over her chest.

“You got any other questions?” she asks when she settles, and—it wants.

And the lord isn’t here, and it is supposed to _rest_ , and _hang tight_ , and—it needs to know.

So.

It asks questions, hesitantly at first, then more boldly, about what the lord does. What the stronghold is like. What Jillian does.

“He governs,” Jillian says, and her hands are expressive. She’s passionate about what she’s talking about. “This started out as a simple faction-based planet, but it’s turned into a proper home server afterwards, so—people come to Empire-ruled lands for some peace and quiet. If they want to retire. If they need to recuperate, you know? So there’s trade agreements, and treaties, and alliances.”

He’s an Emperor. Then why had the lord deigned to show up at a small war in lands that aren’t even his own?

“He was asked.” Jillian laughs under her breath. “Sophie was having trouble with one of her faction’s enemies, and they’re—friends, apparently? Somehow, somewhere. So she called, and he went over as a favor. Not an official delegation of the Empire, but, you know. If it works, it works. He should be staying home for the next little while, though, since Simon sorted out the Hypixel shit.”

It doesn’t think it understands—but it doesn’t need to. The facts stand: he had won a war, and he had taken control of its contract, and he is an Emperor, and if the stars are good then he will have a place for it.

It sinks its hands into the cloak the lord had left behind.

In the silence, Jillian leans forward in her seat, elbows braced on her knees.

“You got everything you need?” she asks. She nods to the bag in its hands, and it tightens them on reflex. “You got a—knife and a sword, it looks like, plus your bag. New armor’ll be here soon enough.”

It opens the bag to check. There’s its notebook and pen, and the pages are worn but they’re dry, undamaged. It runs its fingertips over the cover and wishes—

But Jillian is here. She wouldn’t appreciate it being distracted by something else. It puts the notebook away.

“What’s up?” Jillian asks. There’s something in the eyes that it doesn’t know how to read. “Is something missing?”

It doesn’t understand. “Sir—I mean,” it stumbles.

“Jillian is just fine.”

“Jillian,” it tries, and it sounds—wrong—but she’s nodding, and she doesn’t _look_ angry, or offended, or impatient. The hound’s ears are alert but it’s only watchful, not agitated. So. Maybe it’s fine.

“Sup, kid?”

“You—you mentioned. New armor?”

“Yeah.” She leans back in her seat, tilt her head. “Everyone who joins the Empire gets new armor. Techno’s rules; the guy’s standards for armor quality is off the charts.”

But it’d come here with armor. It doesn’t need another set.

“I don’t need it,” it tells her, because she needs to know. The lord need to know. He doesn’t have to supply armor or weaponry, it can be self-sufficient, it won’t be needy and ask for more. “I _have_ armor, sir.”

“…you don’t need it,” she repeats slowly, like she’s sounding out the words in her mouth before she says them. “Kid, good armor is a _necessity_. Unless—are you civilian?”

“Civilian?”

“A non-combatant.”

Oh. Oh, _no_ , it can’t—it can’t let them think that it’s going to be _useless_. “No, sir,” it manages to choke out. “I can work, sir, I don’t need anything more to work—I can be of service—”

“ _Work_?” she asks, and stands up. She sounds mad, oh _stars_. “Of _service_?”

It can work. It _can_ , it can, it—it needs to convince her—but this isn’t the lord, he’s gone, and it’s supposed to _hang tight_ , stay here, stay with Jillian—except she’s mad, except she’s not the lord, not the person it’s supposed to apologize to, and it needs to _let him know_ except he’s not here and it’s not allowed to leave—

“I’m sorry,” it chokes out, it is, it _is_ , and maybe if it can convince Jillian then she’ll put in a good word for it to the lord—

“It’s okay,” Jillian says, but she sounds panicked, “it’s _okay_ , kid, what do you need—”

It needs—it needs—it shouldn’t, it—

“I’m gonna get Techno, okay, kid?” it hears, through the rush of blood in its ears and the very loud wind of its own lungs. “Hey, boy—I need you to go find—”

_They’ll sit with you today while I get stuff done, alright?_

If it’s lucky, he’ll come back when he’s done.

It presses its forehead into its knees and waits.

* * *

It doesn’t need to wait long.

“What the _hell_ , Jillian,” the lord says, and he is angry, he sounds livid, it cringes and curls up tighter and folds its wings neatly and prays, prays—

The bed sinks in next to it. Someone sits down. “Come here, kid,” he says, and his arms are open.

It’s scrambling over before it realizes, instinct and habit moving it before it realizes it needs to move. It almost bowls the lord over but he stays steady, hauls it into his lap. Keeps his hands away from the wings but runs his hands up and down its back, steady, regular, soothing. “Breathe deeply for me, kid, come on, you know how to do it.”

It’s going to end, of course it will, and then he will—take it in hand—correct it, so that it can learn, so that it can _do better_ , and then—

“Breathe,” he orders, and it’s something it can follow. The world snaps back into place.

It tucks its face into his shoulder and breathes.

“Jillian, I thought I told you to treat him gently?”

“Technoblade. I hope you know that if I ever see the bastard who fucked up this kid so badly, I refuse to be held responsible for my own actions.”

“…that quick, huh.”

“You brought me over knowing full well what my response is going to be, Techno.”

“I know,” he says, and it presses its forehead into his sternum. He’s warm and solid, doesn’t even call attention to it except for a chin that comes to rest, lightly, on top of its head. “Was countin’ on it, actually, until you went and worked the kid up into a panic.”

“I didn’t know bringing up his combat status was going to set him off, but you know, while I’m thinking of it, I don’t want to know. I just want _names_.”

“We’re workin’ on those.” It can feel his voice rumbling in his rib cage, the quickened heart and the rush of blood beneath the clavicle. “In the meantime, Jillian—briefing, remember?”

“Yeah.” Jillian sighs. “…Yeah. Do you think—”

“Yes, I still want you here. Sneeg’s still busy and he’s the only other one who has the time right now. What happened? Usually you’re the one who’s—”

The lord cuts himself off. “There you go, kid,” he says, and he’s talking to it again. It tucks itself tighter into his side, and he lets it. “Jillian, can you grab the—yeah.”

Something drapes around its back—its wings. It’s warm, and it’s plush, and after a day of lying bundled beneath it it knows the texture without looking. “There we go,” the lord murmurs, like giving up his cloak to someone else is commonplace. “Kid?”

It whines. There is a question in his voice, but it doesn’t want to move. If it could physically press closer to the lord, it would, but he’s already holding it close and rubbing circles into its back.

“I’ll just step out for a minute, then,” Jillian says, after a long moment. “Go and refill his water. Take my sweet time about it.”

The lord makes a noise in the back of his throat. If he gives the soldier a look, it can’t see it. The door creaks open and shut soon enough, anyway, and then—it’s just it and the lord again.

“What happened?” he asks again, and if it listens closely enough it can hear the rumble of the storm linger near the edges of his voice. “Did Jillian try something, kid?”

Jillian had been—nice, and kind, and she’d cared enough to bring it its bag and tell it about the happenings in the castle. It doesn’t want her to get in trouble. “No,” it says, and knows it to be the truth. “She asked a question. I—couldn’t answer her.”

“A question?”

“Why I didn’t need new armor.” It’s a valid question. Objectively it knows that. It shouldn’t have freaked out about answering, it shouldn’t—it could have just said _I have armor, the poor condition is my fault, I didn’t take care of it_ and it would have been the truth and they wouldn’t be here, in the aftermath of its mistakes—

“Mm,” the lord says, and it refocuses. “That’s right. You have armor, don’t you? But it’s not been in good condition for a while now, yeah? I remember Sneeg tellin’ me about it, the first time any of us saw you up close off the battlefield. I remember thinkin’ that was weird.”

He knows? No, of course he knows—

“Hey,” he says, and it ducks in its head. “C’mon, kid, you were doing so well. Keep breathin’ for me. Let me finish before you start panickin’, alright?”

It keeps breathing.

“So it’s been a problem since Sneeg met you,” he continues, as though that is all it and the Lieutenant had done. Meet, ha. “And it was still pretty bad when you snuck into our camp. But that’s fine, kid, you know what I’ve got people doin’ right now?”

It keeps breathing.

“Jabber’s makin’ you a set, enchanted and all. Probably’ll hafta adjust it to fit, but that’s fine. They’re magickin’ you a set of clothes, too, so you’ll be actually prepared for the weather here. And it’s one of the rules, okay? Everyone gets new armor. You’re not bein’—set apart, or anythin’.”

Armor and clothing. Everyone gets a new set. Will they be in his colors? Is that why? The room doesn’t have a specific color scheme that it had noticed, but TapL had been wearing blue and so had Jillian.

“And it’s okay,” the lord adds, “if you can’t answer a question. I’ve got a bunch, and so do the others, but you just let me know if I need to tell ‘em to chill, alright?”

It—he deserves to know everything about it, he is the oathbearer, he needs to know what it is he is taking responsibility for—

He passes his hand over the back of its head again. It slumps.

And it waits, but all he does is—sit with it for a while, until Jillian comes back.

She does so quietly, with a quiet click of the door and the slosh of water and a question: “Aren’t you supposed to be in court right now?”

“Nah,” the lord replies lightly. “I dismissed them all.”

“Calvin wouldn’t have—actually, no, he would have let you do that. Damn.”

“For this?” Technoblade snorts. “He caved pretty quickly.”

Jillian scoffs. There’s a moment of silence. It waits, tensing beneath the lord’s hand, for them to realize that it is still here and it has been going unpunished.

But all Jillian says is, “You should bring him around.”

The lord’s voice is as dry as a desert when he replies: “I brought you in specifically because you’re good with kids, Jillian.”

“I know. And I only resent you a little for it. But he’s already—” Jillian hesitates, as she sets down the jug on the low table behind it. “I’ll tell you later. But I mean it. You should bring him around. Let him see what we do around here.”

“I didn’t want to overwhelm him early—Simon wants to meet him, and anyway, we need to go to—you know.”

Jillian curses, low and soft. “Almost forgot about that. But, you know. Then why not practice for that?”

The lord shifts, rubs at its back, taps his fingers against its rib cage in thought. “What do you think, kid?”

It bites its tongue on the first thing it wants to say. Says instead, “I’m under your command, sir,” like it’s supposed to.

The lord huffs a breath against its hair. It tenses. He has been generous, but it has been weak and useless and sick, and it can take it, it can—

“You don’t have to,” the lord says. “You’re still on the tail end of bein’ sick. Don’t want to make it worse. But if you think you’re doin’ okay—then either is fine.”

A ‘choice,’ again. It doesn’t want to move, doesn’t want to see Jillian’s face or the expression on the lord’s, but—

 _I never want you to be in pain_.

“I’ll go with you, sir,” it says, because it needs to start doing its job. And anyway, it needs to know the nooks and crannies of this castle, how to move quickly from one place to another—

Jillian coughs, but there’s amusement in it. “That’s done then. Hey, Techno. It’s my job to stick with the kid now, and the kid is sticking to you, so guess what _that_ means?”

The lord makes a noise in the back of his throat, somewhere between a groan and a laugh. “Did TapL clear that?”

“Oh, TapL was all for it. You keep ditching the people meant to help you, and now we found a way to make you slow down.”

“The empire won’t defend itself, y’know.”

“And you don’t have to do it by yourself, _you know_. We have people now, Technoblade. Try actually fucking delegating sometime, I’ve heard it’s helpful.”

It tenses, but the lord laughs. Not offended, then. Who is Jillian, that she can talk back to someone they call an Emperor? Who is Calvin, or TapL, or any of these people they’ve mentioned?

“I think you’re right,” the lord says, bringing the conversation back around. “Okay. Well, first things first—another nap for you, kid, and by that time Jabber should be done with things. We’ll re-assess after that.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Techno: Jillian, you're good with kids, right?  
> Jillian, who is good with kids only in the sense that they are ready to kneecap somebody on a kid's behalf at any time:
> 
> EDITED march 14, 2021 as two of my lovely readers pointed out mod Jillian's pronouns to me. :D

**Author's Note:**

> In case you missed it, I've made a discord for my MCYT fics! Come [join us](https://discord.gg/raeeQYE8AM). <3
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**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [i'm ravaged, i need disaster relief](https://archiveofourown.org/works/30016824) by [pointvee](https://archiveofourown.org/users/pointvee/pseuds/pointvee)




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